Loco Buri
by Krivoklatsko
Summary: Luxana's conscription could leave Garen in the shadow of his sister's ghost. A curse on Katarina's sister leaves the family's honor in her hands. The Second Rune War is about to assure mutual destruction. And yet, Love Can Bloom. M for death/sex.
1. Garen Crownguard

Loco Buri

Garen gulped hard and readied himself. Rather, he held his breath and hoped that fear would not strike him. He could not prepare for it. And when it did, when Lilia Crownguard finally entered the foyer of her palatial home, diamonds and lace sparkling about her form, Garen shook in his skin. The Might of Demacia, Point Man of the Dauntless Vanguard, Paragon of Demacian Justice and Morality- yes, that Garen. He tried to not look too hard at his accolades. They were on the walls beside him, hidden partially in the shadow of the accumulated trophies and decorations of the entire Crownguard lineage.

Lilia glared, her silver hair and well-worn face striking him like no blade could. He wished she would speak just to break the power of her silence.

"Still single."

He wished she would never speak.

"Yes, mothe-"

"It wasn't a question. I was merely expressing my disappointment. A proper man can attract a proper woman, or at least a woman."

She examined the stone on her ring, musing for a moment about Garen's noble father. The respite only lasted until she remembered her disappointment. The fear returned.

"Jarvan tells me your latest assignment is dangerous."

Lilia never took social situations slowly for her son. She would not wait for his answer. Garen swallowed and learned to breathe.

"Deep strike. Behind enemy lines. The extraction is complicated. I just came to say goodbye."

He was not honored with a response. Lilia's grim smile had no definite meaning.

"Just in case," Garen mumbled.

"I will pass your worries on to Luxanna when she gets back, dear."

Garen glanced around the foyer, confirming her absence.

"I thought... Where is she?"

Lilia's grim smile said much more now. Her cutting tongue added precision.

"Noxus. Behind enemy lines. The extraction is complicated- oh Garen, do try to keep up with your sister's accomplishments."

And just as he was about to protest, she added, "she's almost ten years younger than you, you know." He wished she would never speak.

Garen clenched his jaw. It never felt as masculine in his mother's presence. She sighed, her features softening.

"Now tell me you love me, and go be a good boy for your country."

Garen nodded, humbled.

"I love you, mom."

No answer. But Lilia was satisfied. She turned and left for whatever a socialite's work entails, adding over her shoulder, "Kill as many Noxans as you can, darling. I hear they're outlawing war soon and I wouldn't want anyone thinking you didn't do your part."

Garen remained alone in the foyer, worried for his life, worried that he hadn't earned his mother's love, and worried for the fate of his sister. He didn't need another woman to worry about.


	2. Katarina Du Couteau

Katarina Du Couteau raised her arms from her thighs and waited. Poised awkwardly, with knees bent and feet crossed, she fidgeted against the unfamiliar clothing. Her instructor adjusted the pose of another young girl behind her, then stepped away and announced, "This is your first attempt girls, so please don't feel too worried about being successful. Who is better than whom does not matter yet."

Then, finally, "And... turn."

Pressing off of her hind foot, Katarina sprung into motion, pulling in her arms and swiveling with unnatural grace once, twice, three, four, five, six, seven times and ending with arms wide and posture erect- a perfect pirouette. Her instructor clapped, unable to contain her excitement.

"Oh, Colonel Du Couteau! Your daughter is- she's a natural! I've never seen anything like it in my life!"

Colonel Marcus Du Couteau, soon to be a general in the Noxian High command, only nodded from the bench across the room. Katarina turned to the girl behind her with a proud smile. Cassiopeia, and every other young woman in the room, glared. Life was good at the top.

"Colonel Couteau, if I may! One moment, girls!" The instructor waved a dismissive hand to the line of pre-teens and opened the door by the parent's bench.

"Could we speak outside, sir?"

Du Couteau nodded briefly to Katarina's praise and excused himself with her instructor, leaving mischievous girls to their own devices. The door had barely shut when Cassiopeia turned to the girl next to her and whispered, "_Now, while the teacher's gone._"

The third girl, a disposable friend, stepped out of line, tapped Katarina on the shoulder, and with her attention gained, stated, "I'd be a lot more impressed if you could actually pronounce _Pirouette. _Boys don't care how many _Pirouette's_ you can do anyway. If you're too stupid to talk right then you'll never be a lady. Can you do that, dummy? Can you say 'I can do a _Pirouette_?'"

Katarina balked, her swollen ego pushing aside her better judgment.

"I can do a Piru-" she licked her lips. "Pyra... Piro-"

"Idiot! You're just a tomboy! No one likes you! You-"

Katarina's fist cracked loose lips against the teeth behind them, knocking the other girl to the ground. True to the insults, she did not punch like a lady. Cassiopeia remained in her sister's shadow, safe from retribution, while Katarina stood over her fallen opponent and yelled, "Can you say 'No boys will ever date my broken face?'"

"_Pirouette_, stupid!"

Katarina's pride was shoveled into the fires of rage. She leaped, arm cocked for a second blow, and was met with a foot to her face. She regained her senses on her back at Cassiopeia's feet. The loud-mouthed girl was rising from the ground.

"I'm going to tell on you, stupid! You're getting kicked out, just you see. Mrs.-"

Katarina heard none of it. The solid rush of adrenaline had muffled her ears and turned the world around her red. She saw only the needle holding up Cassiopeia's hair, the clear trajectory from her hand to an exposed neck, and the opportunity for the perfect turn. By the time it was over, Katarina was frozen in latent guilt. No word of warning had been uttered. The other girl gripped at her throat, eyes bulging in shock as air bubbles popped blood around the wound. Sucking and gasping instead of calling for help, she only staggered toward the door, disoriented, falling to her knees just short of it.

The door opened into her face, cracking against her skull and knocking the now-corpse to its back. The adults' conversation finished with Du Couteau confiding, "-always wanted a so-"

Katarina had trouble moving from her follow through. Her throwing arm seemed frozen in space, extended in perfect form. Her shoulders back, chin held high, and feet planted in a form of beauty, she saw little reason to move. And looking into her father's eyes, she did not see the disappointment of two daughters. She saw Noxian Pride. He didn't need a boy. And neither did she.


	3. General Du Couteau

General Marcus Du Couteau's presence at the table was a thing of legend. He kept it that way, always hanging his portrait above the fireplace behind him. Always wearing his ring. Always having his daughters or wife in attendance. As the head of the Du Couteau family, as the face of the Noxian High Command, he held the fate of Noxus in his hands. And what he held, he gripped; A fine Shurima wine at the moment- the _only_ Shurima wine. In attendance at his fine dinner table were Valoran's diplomats to Noxus. Ambassador Laurent, an old friend from Demacia, sat across from him. Piltover, Zaun, and Freljord were also sharing that side of the table. General Du Couteau was accompanied by the twin beauties Katarina and Cassiopeia, his wife "feeling ill." He had much to flaunt from the twins, none the less.

"And from that day onward," he intoned, "I never once doubted that my two daughters would bring me more pride than any son could." His daughters, seated on either side of him, nodded in unison, playing up the twin act. The dual beauties only added to the intimidation. "If it wasn't for Katarina, here, I would be the last great swordsman of my line." The Demacian ambassador smiled grimly. They had sparred in the past.

But General Du Couteau did not notice. He eyed the Piltover Diplomat for the third time that night. And for the third time her face beheld a mixture of guilt and shock, a brief flash before smiling and passing a tray to her right. Otherwise, she was silent and reserved, hiding her face under the brim of a large, purple hat.

General Du Couteau raised his upturned hand to present another topic for the night's dinner, a rehearsed signal that one of his daughters interrupted promptly. "For the record," Katarina monotoned, "I can _Pirouette_." The table erupted with earnest laughter at the story's conclusion, a perfect performance. He beamed at Katarina with pride, and she basked in his attention. "I could not have asked for a better child," he whispered. Katarina blinked her well adorned eyes at him, her symmetrical beauty and deadly grace laying bare for him. "You're too kind, father. I do only what you have taught me." He tried to parry and riposte the compliment, but again, the Piltover Ambassador caught his attention.

Her fervent manipulation of cutlery betrayed something that he couldn't immediately identify. Katarina caught notice and engaged her in a conversation about tracking, something he recalled the Sheriff/Ambassador was known for. It was then, when her eyes lifted from her plate, that he saw it. She had not eaten.

"Marcus, those golems you have in the hallway...?"

General Du Couteau turned to the speaker, Ambassador Laurent, and grinned.

"The small ones that light the room: where'd you get those?"

With a customary nod to another diplomat, Marcus answered, "A merchant in Zaun. You mean the statues with the torches that burn black and red, right?"

The Zaun diplomat chimed in, "We're very proud of our exports, by the way."

Zaun and Demacia nodded to each other. Freljord, meanwhile, was smiling lazily across the table at Cassiopeia, his abdomen gyrating lightly in his chair. Cassiopeia, a disinterested grin on her face, was pretending to listen in on Katarina and Caitlyn. Her footwork was perfect.

"Um... if it's alright... ?"

Several conversations stopped at once to address Caitlyn, the Sheriff of Piltover. She swallowed- fear, not food- and met eyes with General Du Couteau.

"If I might be excused..."

A perfect Piltover accent. He nodded graciously, "of course," and turned to Katarina.

The look in his eyes said everything he had told her before dinner. "She is not who she seems. You know what to do. Make me proud."

From his mouth, the guests only heard, "Would you be so kind as to escort the Madame of Piltover to our restroom?"

Katarina, her tongue like a dagger on silk, smiled. "My pleasure."


	4. Luxana Crownguard

Katarina walked with terrifying grace, her hips swaying with the grace of a dancer and a sword fighter. Her black, leather dress was a second, sexier skin. Luxanna Crownguard eyed the needles holding up the bun of Katarina's hair and found difficulty breathing. Every part of her mind was trying to block out the fact that she was in Noxus, in the house of General Du Couteau, in the belly of the beast. And here, in front of her, was the Murderer, Katarina Du Couteau.

"I hear you've made quite a name for the Law in Piltover. Catherine, was it?"

Lux ignored her panic long enough to say, "Caitlyn." Her accent faltered.

"Now that Demacia and Noxus have stopped fighting..." Katarina's head bobbled "briefly, of course. I guess I'm saying it's just nice to have no wars raging on Runeterra for once."

Lux didn't answer, so Katarina dropped the subject to wave at one of the short golems lining the hallway. Their torches, black flames with red trimming, lit the corridor.

"Father demands that I brag about the lighting he bought from Zaun. He had to sell his summer home to pay for it. Several hundred thousand gold pieces."

Lux recognized a simple Rayleigh Scattering effect at first glance, a trick she had taught herself as a child. Du Couteau had paid too much.

That knowledge was the reason for her conscription, and would do nothing to save her from Katarina's alleged hair-pin-spin-of-death.

"They're lovely," Lux lied, Piltover accent in place.

Katarina scoffed and rolled her eyes in perfect symmetry. Lux would envy the beauty if she wasn't so terrified. Their walk continued past the study, the target, and she felt her knees failing. A hidden room behind the third bookshelf was filled with documentation of Noxian military forces. "One task at a time," she thought. Lux had to get away from Katarina.

"The bathroom is just here." The blade mistress motioned to a doorway just past the study.

"Gentlemen on the left. Ladies on the right. We're too poor for signs."

Luxanna entered the door on the right, away from Katarina's prying eyes and stabbing sarcasm, and ran for the nearest stall. Inside, she pulled a summoning charm from her skirt pocket and attached it the the stall door's interior. The Demacian Ambassador had done the same in the men's room only hours before.

Lux ripped off her purple bodice and skirt, inverting them and activating their techmaturgical components. In a moment of spacial anomaly, the clothing unfolded into a male Noxian dress uniform. Her boots warped into military tread and faded to black. She slipped into the pants, refocusing her magic and hoping for the best. In a short few seconds, she felt the tingling around her subside, and the pressure on her ears increased. She opened the stall door and looked into the bathroom mirror. She was met with the image of a handsome young Noxian Lieutenant in a large, purple hat. It was quickly discarded to the floor. Satisfied, she closed the stall door and gripped the mounted charm. A jarring bolt of magic shot through her, and she felt herself flash through space, from one stall to another in the men's room. The process disagreed with her already knotted stomach, but she had nothing to puke. She only stood and retched for a moment, regaining herself with a verse from The Measured Tread.

"I am the iron constitution of Demacia. I bring justice from the solid foundation of moral righteousness."

The pain subsided. "So far, so good," she chimed. The mask of optimism fooled everyone but herself. Luxanna opened her stall door and exited quickly, outrunning her doubts, and brushed past an impatiently waiting Katarina. She tried not to think about what would happen if Katarina checked on her, and proceeded instead to slip in to the study.

Bookshelves and trinkets met nice furniture. A spinning globe of Runeterra hung from the ceiling in an orbit with worlds that Lux didn't recognize. She power-walked past these to a large, black tome on one of the shelves.

_In Defense of the Ancients:_ _The Archeological Adventures of Ezreal._

Lux tugged at it and stepped back, watching the bookshelf slide silently aside, granting her entry to another study, nearly identical. The same planets hung from the roof over a desk with a map of Valoran. Metal figurines on it gave away troop positions, while glowing arrows indicated movements. She recognized the line of the Noxus-Demacia border, more by the garrison positions than the line. Several ships were in the area of Bilgewater, fighting or committing piracy, or both. She pulled a small picture gem from her pocket and held it over the map. A flash from her hand copied the image and she moved on to the bookshelf. She paused, taking stock. Was that it? Was there nothing else to picture? The books around her seemed just as trivial as those outside: _Summoner's Code_, _Ionian Fervor_, _Tales from Freljord_- Lux circled the desk and slid open its top drawer.

There, in the center, was a single envelope, already opened. She separated the broken Seal of Piltover and slipped out the letter, spreading it open to read.

_Mr. Du Couteau,_

_I am insulted. Piltover is not a nation that concerns itself with war or politics. No, I am not a spy. Your sources are wrong. I am a Sheriff and an Ambassador. Rescinding your invitation is, quite frankly, a mistake. I hope that you can overcome your paranoia sometime in the future and allow our nations to continue a relationship that has been greatly beneficial to our people._

_-Madame Sheriff Caitlyn_

Luxanna stared, not comprehending the severity of her situation. Caitlyn, her disguise, had never been invited. The door shut in front of her, and her gaze shot up in time to see a puff of smoke in Katarina's form. Her scream was muffled by a hand and a dagger to the throat.

"Shhh."

Luxanna gasped and trembled as a pair of lips, deadly and beautiful, pressed against her ear.

"Catherine, was it?"

Lux could still see the smoke dissipating in the doorway while Katarina's dagger graced her throat, and tongue graced her ear.

"We have something called 'pride' in Noxus. Do you know what that means?"

Luxanna closed her grip around the picture gem, only to have Katarina's free hand grab it and twist it behind her back. She lifted the hand until Luxanna was standing on her toes to avoid the pain.

"Open up."

"No. Please. I can't. I don-"

She shrieked as Katarina twisted her arm further, releasing the gem onto the floor.

"Noxian Pride means that when a Lieutenant passes his superior, he stops and salutes her."

Luxanna grunted through the pain in her shoulder as the door opened in front of her, admitting General Du Couteau. He swirled the ice in his glass and finished his drink, setting it on a nearby bookshelf.

"I thought that was a wonderful party, Katarina."

He glanced at Luxanna.

"I hope this hasn't spoiled _your_ experience at the Du Couteau residence. I like the last impression to be the best."

Luxanna couldn't react. Paralyzed by Katarina's grip and her imminent death, she only shivered, wide-eyed.

General Du Couteau approached her and inspected her Noxian uniform, his light touch caressing the different fabrics involved.

"Did you steal this? Am I missing a lieutenant? Hm?"

He double-tapped her cheek, slapping Lux out of her fear.

"Come, now. Answer me."

"P-please. I don't know anything!"

Katarina twisted her arm again and dragged her over the desk, knocking the faux troop positions onto unmapped territories.

"Who sent you?" She screamed.

Luxanna shivered in silence, opening her mouth only to shriek when Katarina twisted her arm again. She couldn't answer. The Truth would kill her. And if she lied, they would still kill her. There was no light at the end of this tunnel. Her arm burned just like the day she was ripped from her home. Just as helpless now as she was then, on the day her parents had beamed and smiled as she thrashed in a soldier's grip. She had known this would happen.

"I'm not a soldier. Please-"

"You're a spy," the General answered. "Who sent you?"

"I'm a civilian."

"From where?"

"I-"

At a signal from Marcus, Katarina twisted her arm again, this time without reservation. The sound of Lux's screams rattled through her own skull just enough to accentuate the grinding pop that split from her shoulder. And finally, in that moment of shock, her disguise faltered and left a shaking child, no older than a teen, sobbing in the uniform of a man. Katarina released her and stepped away in surprise. Du Couteau, the man with legendary presence, clipped and lit a Zaunian cigar.

"Light mage, or lite mage?"

The pun soared high over his company. "Fetch some rope, Kat."

He lifted Luxanna from the table with both arms, and set her roughly into the guest chair. Without warning, he grabbed and readjusted her shoulder, just for the pleasure of her pain.

"I'll be keeping this," he muttered. Lux thought he meant the picture gem until he tugged at her dress uniform.

"No, plea-"

It ripped from her body, reverting to the purple bodice and skirt in an arcane flash. Du Couteau grunted through his cigar. "You can buy anything in Zaun... as long as you pay ten times the price."

Luxanna hugged herself, trying to cover her shame, and could only watch with mounting fear as Du Couteau discarded the disguise to the ground and took his seat across from her, lifting his feet to his desk.

"What were you looking for?"

She shook, avoiding the truth and his gaze for more than the sake of honor. Quietly, in less than a whisper, she recited the Justice Pledge.

"Why are you here?"

_For the honor of my family,_

"Who do you represent?"

_I swear to clash my sword in defense of every true-blooded Demacian._

"Why did you come here?"

_I shall be a messenger from the saved to the fallen._

His mounting agitation turned a usually gravelly voice into a growl.

"What is your _purpose_ in my _HOUSE_?"

_To deliver justice upon those who would do evil, and to defend the weak._

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

"I want to go home," she whispered. There was no hymn to comfort her. No slogan jumped from the Demacian Field Guide to her rescue. No line of the Justice Pledge allowed for such a disgraceful wish. No verse from The Measured Tread was there to console her. Lux did not want Demacian glory or righteous vengeance. Lux wanted home. General Du Couteau wanted answers.

"And where," his softer voice asked, "is that?"

Her gaze rose from the ground, up over the desk, to meet his eyes again. She shivered and hugged her naked form. She could not go home if she told the truth. He could never know that Demacia had sent her. He would never believe that Bilgewater or Zaun had sent a spy. He knew that Piltover had sent no one. She needed Plausible Deniability. Luxanna shivered, and told the lie that she had been told to rehearse. It slipped as if from Ambassador Laurent's own lips.

"I... Ionia. Ionia sent me."


	5. The Death of Innocence

"Shut up!"

Katarina tugged again, pulling Luxanna's shivering body through the doorway and out to the grounds. Night had fallen long before, inviting Runeterra's lightning bugs to fill the air and the void above. Lux, blindfolded, was only aware of the grass, a wonderful contrast to the carpet on her naked back. Katarina tugged again at Lux's bound hands, dragging her face-up toward a crypt in the garden that connected to Noxus' sewers. Marcus Du Couteau had no mercy for spies.

"Please! I don't want to die."

"Shut up!"

Katarina tugged again, her dress preventing a full range of motion. She was dragging Lux farther along the yard, closer to the Du Couteau garden labyrinth, but her mind was still in the house, her father's gaze piercing her.

"I don't understand," she was still saying.

Marcus' image seemed to hover beside her, murmuring, "Tie her up, take her down the crypt, and throw her into the sewer."

"But she'll drown."

Katarina tugged again. She couldn't think about it. She could do it as long as she focused on the image of her father setting down his drink and walking across the room to her. She could do it as long as she would "make me proud, Katarina."

Katarina had never thought that Noxian Pride meant killing a defenseless person. It didn't, she was sure. But she couldn't do it if she kept thinking that. Katarina tugged Luxanna past the first wall of brush, into the maze, ignoring her sobs. Katarina couldn't watch her. Were their fathers switched... She couldn't finish the thought.

"Please."

"Shut UP!"

Luxanna grunted as a boot struck her, but wouldn't stop crying. And so they moved, sobbing, grunting, and rustling the grass as they wound through the maze. Luxanna's shivers grew stronger when grass turned to stone and an iron gate swung shut behind her. The temperature dropped in the presence of the dead, and the stone stairs in the mausoleum jarred her shoulders and ribs. Katarina was panting now, the exertion and stress shaking her resolve. She stopped near the sound of water, dropping Lux at the sewer channel's edge so she would feel the current take the heat with it, like drawing blood from a wound. Gazing down, Katarina wondered what horrors had been dumped into the water that made it reflect so perfectly. The reflection of her flawless face, scared and unsure, looked up from the surface.

She turned away from it to remove Lux's blindfold. Lux squealed, trembling beyond control now, eyes flashing between daggers and water. Katarina waited for their eyes to meet, and in a sudden moment, couldn't tell who was more afraid.

Lux, with nothing to lose, spoke.

"I didn't have a choice."

Katarina only stared, searching for the resolve to do what she had to.

"They came to my home and took me. My mother and father let them. They took me! They told me it was for my family's honor. They told me I had to do it, that I was worthless if I had no honor. I just wanted to go home. I just want my brother back. I know you're a murderer, but I ju-"

Katarina grabbed Luxanna by her shoulders and dragged her to her feet against the stone wall. She leaned in close, demanding silent attention.

"Shut. Up."

Luxanna had said her piece, and only gasped, hopeless, when Katarina drew her blade. With Katarina's hand gripping her bound wrists, she could not escape. Luxanna's tears streamed freely, her knees clacking against each other. Katarina breathed.

"I never meant to kill anyone."

The knife slipped forward between Lux's arms, against her wrists, and paused.

"I never wanted this."

The knife began sawing at her binds. She gasped, still trembling, and watched with growing hope as the first of the rope wraps split. She tried pulling her arms apart, only to have Katarina immobilize her angrily.

"Three-Cuts' Brig knot. Hold still."

She sawed at a second part, trying not to think about what she would tell her father. Lux gasped again as it split, no longer shaking. Having exited the fear of death and entered the light of hope, she was readying her escape. Oblivious, Katarina only sawed, thinking that she was doing the right thing. The final tie popped, a light flashed, and Katarina found herself blinded in the darkness. She heard a scraping sound and realized that she had dropped her dagger.

"No. Wai-!"

Lux swiped, and Katarina's face was perfect no more. She shrieked, tripping in her dress and falling to the stone floor. Lux was standing over her now, brandishing the dagger. Katarina clutched at her eye, feeling the blood pour from a vertical slash as she tried to crawl away in panic. Luxanna dropped the dagger and ran, sprinting down the waterway in a panic of her own, leaving Katarina gasping as her footsteps echoed away into nothing. It wasn't until much later that Katarina finally stood and collected her dagger, feeling the blood pour down her face. Her reflection peeked up from the water again, perfect no more, and Katarina realized that she would not be able to lie to her father. She gathered the rope as well and turned away from the reflection.

Hollow echoes from her feet seemed like the laughter of the dead as she ascended into the crypt. The entire lineage of Du Couteau awaited her, each buried with blades that had never shown mercy, and faces without scars, their sarcophagi graced by monoliths and statues in their honor. Katarina feared she would have no place among them now. But as her view crested the stairs, it was not the dead she feared most. Her father was waiting in the Crypt's entryway, his sword drawn and reflecting the shadow of his face to her.

"I inherited this sword from your grandfather."

Katarina stopped on the top step, rope and dagger limp at her sides.

"Do you know what I learned from him?"

Katarina swallowed, her saliva seeming thicker than necessary. "Fencing?"

Marcus Du Couteau's silhouette approached her, stopping as the light reached his waist, his face still in shadow.

"You showed her mercy."

Katarina swallowed again and nodded. Her sarcasm had been defeated by the scorn of no response.

"Your grandfather trained war dogs, Kat. He kept one for himself long into his retirement." Marcus Du Couteau approached another step, to the center of the tomb, where only his head was left in shadow. He planted the sword by its tip against the stone at his feet.

"He told me that he had found that dog in the wild, cold and starved, patches of hair missing where its scars had knotted the skin too much. Its teeth had been covered in infectious film, and its paws were calloused and scarred beyond usefulness, while its ears were filled with ticks. It had stopped in a hole and lain down to die when he found it. So he picked it up, took it home, and nursed it to health."

Katarina eyed the rope in her hands, realizing that her injured eye had swollen to be effectively useless.

"Not once did that dog ever bite him, or snap at him, or show him any hostility- not even on the day he slew it. No dog will bite the hand that feeds it."

Katarina dropped the rope, its three cuts and four pieces scattering on the floor.

"That is the difference between a dog and a man," he finished.

Katarina nodded, but raised her chin and held her ground.

"That girl was unarmed. She was only trying to bring honor to her family, just as I would have. And I would have wanted to live, even w-"

Her voice shook, and she stopped to steady it.

"Even without honor."

In the silence, the dead seemed to sigh. Marcus did not seem to breathe.

"You think killing her would have been evil," he answered.

Katarina nodded.

Marcus drew his sword up from the ground and pointed it to the grave of Calipso Du Couteau.

"Evil is live spelled backwards. This is no coincidence."

His sword moved across the hall, cutting a menacing line level with her neck, to the grave of Charles Du Couteau.

"Mercy only applies to the guilty. There is no innocence."

The sword shifted, crossing over Katarina again to the grave of her grandfather.

"Man is the only animal that will betray you, in all incidents."

And finally the sword fell to the only empty tomb, which had been prepared for Marcus Du Couteau.

"This is the foundation of all Jurisprudence: In this world, only the strong survive."

The sword returned to an upright position in his arms, tucked against his shoulder and ready to strike.

"I tell you this, my child, because I love you. And because your survival beyond my death will be proof of that love. Now go forth, your blood honored by your blade, and slay your enemies..."

He pointed his sword, finally, at Katarina. The expectant ending was for her. This mantra had been recited to her since her birth, and to Marcus since his.

"Without mercy," she finished.

The shadow of his face seemed content.

"Now arm yourself. If you have only one eye, it must be twice as proficient."


	6. Deep Strike

Garen ran, men trailing behind him with heads low and hands ready at their swords as their bodies rustled through the thick Kalamanda Grass. High above and to the south- Garen's right- the summit of mount Targon was shining in the glory of the sun. The sun had set a full hour beforehand for Garen's altitude, and the night sky was brilliant with stars on the half not gleaming in Targon's range. The stones in the quarry behind him reflected its glint on one side, and deep shadow on the other.

Garen had no eye for beauty at the moment. With a map and direction fresh in his mind, the task at hand seemed all too easy.

Go there. Kill a man. Come home.

The woman ahead of him stopped, hand balled into a fist behind her. Garen's unit, The Dauntless Vanguard, slid to a halt in the bushes beside her, staying low in the darkness of their shadows, waiting for the Team Leader's command. Garen was still adjusting to the leader not being him.

"Patrol," she whispered. Two fingers rose from her fist and beckoned Garen forward. She pointed between the reeds for him to see. "There." Sporadic rock formations and patches of untamed grass hid most of the view, but a mass of Noxian men was making no effort to hide its presence as it marched along a path about ten meters ahead of the Vanguard. "And there," she added. Garen followed her fingers to a group of three soldiers standing under a lamppost. The patrol stopped at the post to trade three men before moving on.

Gravel and sand crunched under the Noxans' boots louder than the quiet breathing of the Vanguard. Even their shifting weight in the bushes was disguised by the soft, warm winds. "We're taking this route back," the Team Leader grumbled. "I don't want them to still be here when we do that. You three-" She indicated Garen and two men. "Move up and take the post while we cover you. I want a silent takedown."

Garen nodded and shimmied forward in the brush with the other two in tow. The rest of the vanguard, meanwhile, fanned out around them to cover more of the road. The distance was closed quickly, revealing the cobblestone roadway that roamed a large circle around its unmapped forest to the village.

The Noxans were chatting amongst themselves. No one really expected Demacian troops to cross through a demilitarized zone to break a ceasefire. Garen especially hadn't expected to do it under the command of a civilian- a woman. He reached the edge of the brush and waited for the pat to signal his team was ready.

"Man, it's not right!" One of the Noxans yelled. His mouth carried.

Another, equally loud, voice responded, "Everyone spies. I don't see what's so special about Ionia."

"You want a spy in _your_ house?"

"No! I'm just saying I don't see what a war's going to accomplish."

The third soldier stepped in, "It's about respect! These colors don't run! You seen Ionia? You know anything about that place? Let me tell you. They got no schools. They got no sewers. They got no government healthcare. They got no respect! You know what kids in Ionia do? They don't go to school, they go to temples. They get sick? They go to the temple. They're old enough to make a fist? They go to the temple and learn to kill. And now they send a kid to spy? On us? You think we should just let them do that to kids?"

"I don't think it's comparab-"

"Hey, screw that noise, man! You telling me- if you- if you saw a guy keeping his kid out of school- what, you'd do nothing?"

"I don't think I'd invade his house."

"Yeah? And who helps his kid, huh? You just sit by? Do nothing? Even when he sends his kid to spy on you? You do nothing? Yeah. Yeah, real smart. We'll just wait 'till _they_ attack _us_."

Garen felt the tap on his shoulder and traded glances with his men. The patrol was too far from their bush for a melee takedown. They had no daggers. Garen rattled the bush.

"It's about respec-"

"It is not about respect, don't even try that. We spy on them too."

"Oh, you're on their side!"

"I am no-"

Garen coughed and rattled the bush harder. No reaction.

"Look, you know how this world works? Darkwill said it himself-"

"-Yeah, _for_ himself."

"What, you an anarchist? You think we'd be better off without a king, like Ionia? It's anarchy, man!"

Three silent thwacks struck flesh in unison. Garen saw the patrol fall, dead as their conversation, and suddenly felt the Team Leader at his side, her leather body suit making something less than silence in the reeds.

"Garen, I remember explaining to you that this mission would be safe and easy- _only _if it happens _quickly._" Vayne reloaded her wrist-bow. "And we're on the Noxus side of the line now." She cocked the bow emphatically.

"We leave the patrol, and the road."

"Mam..."

She rounded on Garen silently.

"Mam, the jungle's an unnecessary risk. We can take the road and the patrol."

She watched him, silently, before nodding. "Quickly then. Take the other side of the road. At the next post, you'll get ahead of them and initiate on my signal."

Garen turned and picked three men with hand signals. They scurried from the cover, across the road, and paused only a moment in the far bush while Garen waited for the pat on his shoulder to confirm the team had made it. They surged forward, matching Vayne's team as they caught up to the Noxian column. The breeze had dropped to nothing, turning the enemy march into a deafening crunch and shuffle. Garen slowed his pace as his team overtook the back row of the patrol. More chatting. More inanity. Another post appeared from the darkness, and the column stopped. Garen took a knee and waited. He was a full eight strides from the closest Noxan. In the bushes opposite him, behind the column, Vayne's glasses reflected a light. She was nodding at him.

Vayne grinned through her shades as Garen's voice rang out into the startled column. "DEMACIA!"

The cry of the first Noxan terrified the rest; his last word was screamed under the certainty of death- "NO" and a dull squish.

Five Noxans fell to Garen's Vanguards in the next instant. Vayne's bolts felled the sergeant and the one man fast enough to escape. A few breaths later the column was a pile.

"We stick to the road," Vayne conceded.

The rest of the Vanguard burst from the bush, following her point again down a trail into the heart of Noxus.

Garen was smirking inwardly.

Go here. Kill a man. Come back. Quickly.

Vayne dropped a halt again. Garen and the Vanguard took knees in a wedge formation around her. She pointed into the darkness ahead, where a giant stone spearman stood guard, one of the ancient road sentries that pocked Valoran's landscape. Garen nodded to her. "What?"

"It's active. Why is it active?"

Garen peered. The statue, a massive stone construct depicting an armor-clad spear man, was active. At this range it was barely visible, but a slight glow emanated from the eyes and the tip of his upturned spear. Dive a Turret. Go there. Kill a man. Come home.

"Jungle?" Garen whispered.

Vayne thought, her mind rumbling through contingencies and maps. Kalamanda's forest "The Jungle" was not one of the wooded glades of Demacia. It wasn't actually mapped. And it would increase mission failure chance by a full twenty percent.

_Stick to the plan; stick to the road._

_Turret._

Vayne motioned toward it.

"I want to get closer, first," she grumbled. "This is intel."

The Vanguard resumed motion, scurrying closer to something that was most certainly not in the plan. As shadows cleared and darkness receded, they saw for certain that the towering monolith's weapon was charged, ready to strike a deadly burst at any foe who threatened its road. It was powered for the first time in several hundred years. Vayne checked her shoulders when they stopped again, just out of range.

"Time." Vayne was a curt woman by habit and short on it at the moment.

A Vanguard to her left whispered, "10 minutes in."

Two milestones behind.

Mission failure chance up five percent.

Tables and charts flew through her mind. The Jungle was an option only if it saved six minutes. It would still cost a predicted two casualties. The plan dictated a mission abort at three casualties, eighteen minutes, or eighty percent failure chance.

Garen had seen the same tables and the same charts.

Survive Jungle. Go there. Kill man. Survive Jungle again. Come home.

And no one wanted to carry the brute through jungle. Vayne pulled a mini-ward from her utility belt and clipped it to her ear. Ward silence would end at fifteen minutes, coinciding with the Demacian Military's strike on the town. Kalamanda Village would be Demacian territory when the sun rose.

The tower's glow died suddenly, an arcane hiccup natural to any complex machine that has been left idle for too long. Vayne, ever the opportunist, stood and sprinted toward it, legs and posture opening from stealth to speed. She reached the base and pointed at the fastest man to catch up. "Boost me." He took a knee and cupped his hands while she stepped up him, grabbing on to the stone spearman's knee and hoisting herself up to the statue's waist. Garen caught up to his men at the base and watched as Vayne swooped onto its arm. She scuttled from there up its shoulder, finally leaping onto the spear hand without losing any momentum. She drew the larger crossbow from her back, a two-inch thick steel bolt already loaded, and aimed it at the spear's center, where the shaft met the head. The stone sundered under the blow where the arrow lodged, and Vayne re-slung her crossbow. She jumped onto the bolt, leveraging it against the stone with her weight.

The eyes of the statue began to glow.

Vayne jumped and landed hard on the bolt. The crack echoed too far for comfort, but the stone was breaking. The eyes glowed brighter, gradually rising to their former luminescence. Vayne jumped, landing another blow and another crack, this time visible, along the spear. The spearhead flickered, only barely connected to its dying magical flow. With a final jam, she saw the crack split around the haft's circumference, separating the head and tumbling it to the road below. Garen dodged the falling missile just in time. If the cracks were loud, the thump was deafening.

Position revealed.

Mission failure chance at fifty-five percent.

Vayne jumped down, landing in a tumble and coming up running. The need to move was obvious. Vanguard forming in around her, they took another hundred meters on the road before the sound of a Noxian patrol ahead sent them to a ditch on the south side. The Noxans passed in a hurry, twenty men strong, running to investigate the thump. Vayne was out of the bush as soon as they were gone. They would have to outmaneuver that patrol on the way back, which meant jungle.

Mission failure chance at seventy-five percent.

Thirteen minutes. Vayne accelerated to a full sprint, Vanguard catching up behind her as they passed the remains of a destroyed turret, its platform reduced to the lifeless stone that used to hold magic. The road was still curving, the steady right handed motion bringing them around the jungle and towards the village. Less than a minute later they slid into brush. Garen kept his breath below a pant as he crept up to Vayne's side, peeking out onto the houses and tavern nearby.

"Welcome to Noxus," he heard her breathe. They were now ahead of schedule, no men down, with conditions back at only sixty percent against.

Garen smiled to his nine finest brothers-in-arms, noticing the path directly to their right. Where the brush ended, a mass of warning signs had been erected.

**Jungle is forbidden to non-military!**

**Do not follow strange lights!**

**Disembodied voices lie!**

And on each was a skull.

Vayne held up a hand with three fingers, the look on her face foreign to what the team had already seen. She waived forward at the houses and tavern, beckoning Garen and two men to follow her out of the bush, figures hunched low as they crossed the twenty meters to a pile of firewood, leapfrogging from there to the wall of the tavern. Otherwise, they were without cover. Pressing up against the rear wall, they saw it had no features. No windows or ventilation where another building would have had some. The houses down the row held the same anomalies, probably due to the jungle.

Vayne held up a hand for Garen, signaling something that he couldn't understand in the silence. She tapped her ear. Silence. Garen pressed his head against the tavern wall. Silence, in a Noxian tavern, at Noxian tea time. Vayne's fist told Garen to wait while she circled the building. Garen did not like waiting without orders or line of sight. Gripping his sword and breathing in the silent darkness, he whispered a verse from the Measured Tread. Repetition brought solace until Vayne returned, her perpetually upset face sterner than usual.

"The tavern's been commandeered," she whispered. "He's inside."

She paused a beat. "Along with the entire Noxian High Command. I saw Darkwill, Du Couteau, his daughter, and some monks. Ten Crimson Blades with them. We wait 'till wards go loud, then request orders."

The Vanguard had not been authorized to strike those targets, or engage in that much strength. Vayne nodded into the darkness. "And if that fox gets close enough, grab it and kill it. It's been giving away our position all night." Garen followed her gaze to two glowing eyes in the darkness. The fox stopped, a paw frozen in motion, and stared.

"Nine-tails are good luck, mam," Garen whispered back.

Vayne scowled. "It's a magical malady- a freak of nature. And it's giving away our position." Garen turned to signal one of the Vanguard in the bush by the road, but the fox had already disappeared. A slam toward the front of the tavern knocked silence out of the Vanguard.

"You've had too much, Sion," a female called.

A rolling, flatulent expletive rumbled from the throat of a brute. Target acquired.

"Just take the night off. You've done a lot of hard work," the female consoled.

Sion belched another expletive and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Now," the female threatened.

Sion belched more dishonest oaths and began thumping unsteadily toward the back of the tavern. "Handle a piss, Kat. High arse 'mand," was grumbled.

Vayne caught on to his direction and signaled Garen and his men back to the bush. She made it half-way and slid into cover behind the firewood pile. Sion, the dumb, unlucky bastard that he was, shambled his way toward the jungle. The stench of alcohol seemed to be stalking him, but Vayne could only smell the magic in his blood. No longer human, no longer pure. Garen gaped when he finally saw his target. Sion, the backbone of Noxian morale, the brute of their forces, was impossibly large for a human. Muscles rippled over muscles as he staggered and slipped his way past the wood pile toward the jungle. A slip of his feet redirected him at the Vanguard's bush.

"Good place as any," he mumbled to no one in particular.

Vayne emerged from the wood pile behind him and gave him only the click of her crossbow as warning. Sion's head lifted in confusion, his hands still reaching for his pants, when the bolt pierced his neck and sent him forward into ten drawn blades. Sion the Brute was no more. Barring unfortunate incidents, the Vanguard would join the main force with his head on a pike before the hour was through. The color guard drew butcher's knives and made quick work discarding the brute's arm and legs. The head would go on a stick and the torso would go to Vayne for whatever she had wanted it for. "Leave the limbs here. Wards up?"

The man with the chronometer nodded. "Ten seconds, mam." Vayne nodded back. "Alright. Start moving."

The Dauntless Vanguard rose, corpse divided amongst four men and stowed away in their packs, and passed the warning signs into unmapped territory.

Target down and mid-extraction, outflanked and presence revealed, their failure chance was now at a comfortable sixty percent. And suddenly, in perfect time with wards lighting in the darkness around the town, Mount Targon gleamed its last light of the night, casting away the sun and blinding the town.

Vayne's headset ward finally whispered to life, arcane static humming tunes from other worlds while the device focused. Quiet murmurs began echoing just loud enough for the men to hear,

"This is Jarvan Lightshield the Third, your king. Your brothers stand ready at their posts to retake what it rightfully ours, to reclaim the honor of Demacia and to expel the foul presence of Noxus from this sacred place! To grant mercy is to pronounce guilt! Today, we bring only Justice! The general will guide you now. I go to the front."

Vayne signaled another halt and dropped to the ground, spreading out a map from her pack. She keyed her ear-ward. "Command, this is Pincushion, reporting mission success. Extracting to way point Lima. Additional for artillery: Tertiary Targets One, Five, and Seven are concentrated at grid squares..." Her finger drew a bead on the map. "Coco four and Buri four. Low collateral."

Garen spotted the mutant fox's eyes behind them again. It had stopped about ten meters away, still curious and cautious. Another voice responded over Vayne's earpiece.

"Pincushion, this is Jarvan the Fourth speaking. Artillery is behind schedule. Are you at full strength?"

"Affirmative." She didn't check.

"Vayne, take who you need and extract. Your contract's fulfilled. Leave any men you don't need behind with Garen. And hand off your ward to him."

She gestured at the corpse-flag color guard, mumbling, "You're with me." She tossed her earpiece to Garen and parted with, "don't let the fox get you killed."

Garen fumbled the ear-ward to his head.

"Jarvan?"

"Garen?"

"I'm here, sir."

"Good. How many men do you have?"

He checked, "Five, sir."

Outflanked. Jungling. Enemy aware of presence. And now his unit was down to half strength.

Mission failure chance above ninety percent.

"You have a new objective. Katarina Du Couteau."


	7. Smoke and Mirrors

Katarina breathed, calming her nerves and trying not to move more than the trundling carriage was making her. A summoner named Grieve was crouching in the cabin in front of her seat, his hands wielding arcane mysteries around her eye. The bubbling of blood and the leathery stretch of skin was a strain on her psyche, but it didn't hurt so much as itched in ways she didn't know existed. Muscles and bone slid like flotsam on a blood shore, snaking around nerves and tendons in the summoner's guided waves. The swelling had receded the day before, after a healer had sealed the wound to prevent infection. Now Grieve, a master of The Art, had the task of opening the wound to repair it. A sharp zip- the feel of skin splicing together- made Katarina's eyelid twitch and fidget without command. The pain subsided and she blinked under control again.

Grieve, his face barely visible under the elegant, black robes, blew on his hands, dispelling a strange, green mist from them. He took a moment to adjust the clasp on his cloak, the emblem of Noxus.

"The wound is healed. Allow me another moment to remove the scar."

Katarina's head shook. "No. Leave it."

On the opposite bench in the cabin, her father glanced up from a field report. He nodded to Grieve, who returned to his seat at General Du Couteau's side.

"She certainly is your daughter, Marcus," Grieve smirked.

General Du Couteau smiled at the compliment, his eyes remaining on the papers in his lap. Grieve's interest in Katarina had seemed instantaneous when they had picked him up a few hours ago. Although the shadows disguised it, his gaze was on her for the entire ride.

"No magical aptitude?" Grieve, asked.

Katarina seemed insulted. She held out the thumb on her right hand for him to see.

"I learned a little in Bilgewater."

She grabbed her thumb with her other hand, letting the digit poke through the gripping fingers and wiggle for show. Then she tugged on it, making a great facade of effort before letting it come off with a "pop." Marcus Du Couteau chuckled to himself. Grieve, his face obscured by the hood, only stared.

Katarina wiggled the faux-separated thumb in her left hand's grip.

"Arr. That be me lucky thumb, too." She wiggled it again to emphasize, trying for humor.

"A pity," Grieve finally mumbled.

The carriage jerked to a stop at his words, knocking a sheet of paper from General Du Couteau's lap to the floor. Katarina reached it first, her hand opening to reveal the cheap thumb trick. But she stopped when the paper was in her hand. Marcus swiped it from her, hiding the view of its header: a blossoming, black rose. Before she could think about it, knocking sounded against the door.

"We're here, sir."

General Du Couteau slipped his papers into a leather folder and secured its clasp while the cab's driver opened the door. Katarina was the first to step out into the Kalamanda City air. Grass, pollen, and wood fires from stone hearths were all she detected. Kalamanda _Village_, she reminded herself. She turned south and had to cover her eyes. The beam of Mount Targon's peak was gazing down with power to match the afternoon sun. She felt her father's hand on her shoulder.

"Not to worry, Kat. We'll only be here a few days."

Katarina grimaced and followed her father and Grieve across the unpaved street to a three-floor tavern.

'Sudden Night Inn," with an image of a mounted knight, was painted above the door. Katarina tried to ignore the typo as she stepped over the threshold. The interior was podunk-cozy, with an actual thresh floor for the thresh hold. Katarina was relieved to feel an actual wood floor below the hay, but could not appreciate the aesthetics. Barrels of grog were lined along the wall and several tables were pressed together in a large mass at the center of the room. Grand General Boram Darkwill was leaning over these, discussing maps with his generals.

"Attention!"

Katarina spotted two corporals of the Crimson Blades on either side of her her guarding the door. They and the other non-officers present stopped at parade rest for her entrance, hands gripped behind their backs and posture erect- a show of Noxan Pride. She stood aside for her father, a general; and Grieve, whose informal rank was usually treated as equal to Darkwill- in his absence.

"Late, Grieve. Someone brief Couteau."

Boram Darkwill was _not_ absent. Katarina found a place on the wall to lean while her father and the summoner were welcomed at the table. Boram pointed to an officer at his side without looking up. "Swain, Du Couteau. Du Couteau, Swain. Swain here is a wonderful tactician, Marcus. Probably replace you someday."

Marcus met Swain's eyes while they shook hands.

"I'll be sure and kill him before then, sir," was his way of a joke.

Katarina did not have her sister's social graces, and found great difficulty distinguishing her father's sense of humor from his threats. But when all three men smiled, she realized that there may not have been a difference to recognize.

Darkwill held up several sheets of parchment, finally raising his eyes from the table of maps.

"Your daughter's been very helpful, by the way. Keep hosting those parties; the Demacian Ambassador says too much."

Katarina shifted her weight against the wall uncomfortably. She remembered Cassiopeia marking the Freljord man, while the Demacian Ambassador had said nothing of consequence the entire night. Katarina shifted her weight again, the thoughts discomforting her more than the surroundings. Cassie and father had fought that night. Screaming and the thrashing of furniture was all that Katarina had been made privy to. Cassie had stayed in her room for the last three days up to the very moment that they left, father declaring her ill. No mail had left the house, either. How, then, did Boram Darkwill procure several pages worth of notes from her?

Cassieopeia's laugh startled Katarina into the present. She was leaning over the table with Darkwill, her eyes watching Katarina with the typical rival's spite. But she turned away as quickly as her laugh had made her appear, leaving Boram to be absorbed into the conversation with his tacticians.

"Enough are we expecting Sion and Warwick?"

"This hour, sir."

"And the Demacians?"

Cassiopeia returned to the table with a mostly-empty pint of Kalamanda Tea from the bar.

"The Dauntless Vanguard should be here in three hours."

"And you're sure about that, Cassie?"

Katarina couldn't help the sick feeling that crawled up her spine when Cassiopeia responded. First it was her body language: The lack of seduction, the air of overbearing elegance, and the glare that spoke something other than flirtation. When her lips parted and her voice enunciated in bursting strikes instead of desperate, dulcet tones, Katarina knew something had definitely changed about her sister. "Really now, Boram. Would I lie?"

Darkwill grunted as if to say, "Yes, but I'm a betting man."

He turned to the nearest tactician.

"Security?"

Swain's chest puffed ever so slightly. "They won't get in without alerting us. It will cost several men, but we should be able to track their progress by thirty second intervals, and continuously once they reach our wards."

"And how are the saboteurs?"

Here Marcus slipped a letter Darkwill. "The Demacians will have no artillery."

"Good," Darkwill nodded. "Kat. I assume you've been briefed?"

Katarina stood off of her wall and came to parade rest.

"No, sir."

"I'm sure you've heard of Sion."

Katarina nodded quickly, recounting very little detail about a big brute with a big axe who did big, bad things to a lot of Demacians.

"The Demacians are coming here to kill him, Kat."

Eager and ready, she laid her soul into her voice when she answered, "I will defend him with my life, sir."

Boram Darkwill sighed and continued speaking with a sidelong glance at High Summoner Grieve. "Well he wouldn't be very useful if we needed you to do that. Sion is bait. You're going to let the Dauntless Vanguard kill him. Your job," and here Darkwill's gaze finally locked onto Katarina in full force. He raised a hand to point at her. "Your job is to kill Garen Crownguard."


	8. Voices Lie

Katarina had seen nothing when Sion entered the tavern. She was equally oblivious to the presence of Warwick and the details of his discussion with Grand General Boram Darkwill. Also obscured was the conversation between her father and the tactician Swain. She was only aware of the grim specter haunting her mind.

"Your job is to kill Garen Crownguard," was still echoing in her skull. The constant training from her father had been preparation for this, or for some future plan that involved this fight to the death. Katarina was coming to these mini epiphanies in the few hours she had left before her confrontation, for lack of anything better to do- too short to prepare and too long to wait. She had stretched in the morning and was ready for combat at all times, just as father had always insisted. Another epiphany- what an unusual childhood.

The men assigned to help her didn't seem concerned. Three assassins of the Crimson Blades, their faces concealed in cloth armor- red and black- sat idle and patient on the bench with her. There was no busywork among them, no stress evident in their posture, and no worry in their breathing. Unlike her, Katarina realized, these men had seen combat. These men had killed of their own initiative and intent. She couldn't feel like the "Team Leader." So she felt nervous instead. By the time the sun rose, either she or Garen Crownguard would be hanging dead from a banner on the border. And the thought of that corpse, of Sion, of Garen, of herself, seemed to dangle in front of her.

Where morbid thoughts might have carried her into uncertainty, an uncouth belch and obnoxious compliment stole her attention. Sion's end of the room was littered with empty pints. Practicing her art perfectly, Cassieopeia was chatting him up and putting as much grog in him as would fit. He hadn't been told that he would soon be dead, or that Cassie had no real interest in him. Katarina mused that it wasn't in his nature to care.

Her orders were to recover his remains. And if Garen Crownguard didn't finish him off before she intervened, then her job was still to recover his remains. Sion chugged another pint- his eigth- and Katarina quietly slipped her mind into another worried place.

Garen Crownguard as a complete stranger to her. She had no idea what he looked like. Garen Crownguard could be another Sion. Garen Crownguard could be younger than her. She suppressed a chuckle- unlikely. But the thought that she would soon be assassinating a stranger who had never wronged her did not sit easily until she caught her father's glare from the generals' table. He could tell she had doubts, and she could tell that this was part of his plan for her. She would kill whomever she was told. She would focus. Katarina nodded, satisfying Marcus' gaze, and returned her thoughts to what she did know. Garen Crownguard was a veteran. Garen Crownguard had killed intentionally. "Garen Crownguard just broke the perimeter." Katarina's solemn face turned back to the Generals' table. Swain, the tactician that Boram Darkwill had introduced, was holding a sound-ward to his ear, listening to a report. He nodded.

"The Vanguard brought an extra person with them. A woman."

Something about the imminent danger seemed to click in Sion's mind. He set down a drink in the general direction of the bar and reached for his axe. Cassie's hand on his arm stopped him and her words strapped him to his chair in that same snappy tone that didn't belong on her lips. Another bout of drinking made him forget what he'd heard entirely, and another gesture from the generals' table made the strange behavior slip Katarina's mind.

"A patrol just went missing on the road," Swain added. "And the turret is malfunctioning. We should see them in less than a minute."

He nodded toward High Summoner Grieve, who was quietly pondering the mysteries of the universe in a chair beside Sion. Grieve lifted a finger towards the mass of tables that were pushed together at the center of the pub. There, a glowing, white orb appeared, grabbing the attention of the many assorted generals. Grieve baled his fist and opened it, expanding the orb until it was a meter wide. Shameless theatrics by the absence of theatrics. He flicked a finger, seeming bored, and the whiteness inside the orb swam into colors and shapes.

The image sharpened and focused into perfection- and there, in the very bushes behind the tavern, sat Garen Crownguard and his Dauntless Vanguard. Katarina's attention was stolen by a hand motion from the Grand General. He pointed at Sion, and then the door. Katarina and her men rose from their seats and crossed the tavern to the not-yet-late Sion. He was too busy grumbling to Cassiopeia about the trouble with being famous to notice the sudden shift in atmosphere. Harsh and pointed, Katarina's tap to the shoulder brought him into the present.

"You look tired, Sion. Maybe you should head somewhere comfortable."

The alcohol in his system was less subtle than her hint. "I am very comfortable right here with your sis-"

His hand groped where Cassie had been sitting. She was standing at the generals' table now. Darkwill's nod was enough for Sion to understand that he was not leaving optionally.

"Get out," Katarina scowled, Her hands resting on the hilts of her swords.

When the thought finally passed through his mind, Sion nodded and lifted his axe from the ground, then trudged unhappily toward the door with his escort in close tow. He made sure to slam the door open, either from drink or disappointment, before finally belching, "bitch" under his breath as he crossed the threshold.

Katarina had trouble being angry at someone she was about to murder by negligence, and was momentarily distracted by her second exposure to the sign in front of the tavern. "Sudden Night Inn," and the image of a knight. She passed out into the Kalamanda air, assassins in tow, and called out to the grumpily marching brute, "You've had too much, Sion."

He was stomping off toward the rest of the town, but stopped suddenly, colliding with a thought.

Whatever insult he directed at her next was covered by another belch. He turned away from the town and stared at her, squinting and with his hand trying to block out the sun's reflection. Mount Targon's snowy peak, miles above the rest of Valoran's plains, was still reflecting a sun that had set hours ago.

"Just take the night off. You've done a lot of hard work," she tried. It didn't seem right for someone to die in a bad mood if they could avoid it. The brute grunted another profane comment, swaying with the effort, and Katarina's impatience finally outweighed her kindness as she drew her blades.

"Now," was her final warning.

Sion belched again and seemed to lean toward her a bit more than what his balance would allow. He caught himself by walking, then swayed toward his side until he was walking toward the tavern's rear. Katarina tried not to panic. The process required much grumbling and flatulence on Sion's part, and much impatient pity and stupid indecision on Katarina's, but he finally made it into the darkness towards certain doom. And when Katarina heard the distinctive scrape of swords being drawn and bolts whizzing through air, she knew the task was done- improperly. The whole point of Sion's death was that the Vanguard would be drawn OUT of cover and INTO the ambush. The next blades to draw were those of the men at her sides. And all eyes were on her now, awaiting an order that was not part of a plan. Katarina breathed, slowly, in control, and stepped around the tavern so she could stare into the bushes and darkness of the Kalamanda Forest.

Muted, wet slaps and quiet rustling were coming to her on the wind. They were butchering Sion's body. When the sound finally turned to running and trudging, the fear of failure outweighed the fear death.

"After them. Now!"

Low and fast, Crimson Blades and shadows slipped through blackness after misdirected noises and into grass taller than most men. Discarded limbs and blood hindered the groups movement for a moment, but were passed over in uncaring silence. Katarina briefly glimpsed a pile of warning signs that lead into the forest, reading only "voices lie" before she found herself fumbling to as quiet a stop as possible in complete darkness. Sudden Night. Targon's Peak was finally dark. The man beside her pointed to two small beads in the darkness, the reflective eyes of some mammal of the night. In the instance when light faded, the creatures of the dark had finally come out. His hand pointed again, past the eyes, at a swaying lantern passing away from them and Katarina motioned her men forward. The lantern was running. The Vanguard couldn't get too far ahead of them if this was going to work.

The group sprinted, slower now than before for fear of tripping and revealing their position, but still fast enough to close. As the light grew closer, the sound of armor and grass rustling came to their ears reassuring Katarina until it suddenly stopped. The lantern extinguished. Two assassins advanced around her left, opening their formation into a concave and holding their blades ready as the group came short of its target. There was enough experience among them to not need commands for the obvious. Slow and forward they crept now, nearly feeling the heartbeats of their prey, when a voice sounded. "Over here." Katarina dropped to a knee and looked to her left, incredulous and outraged at the betrayal of their position. The men there were looking in her direction, equally confused. "You should split up," came from her right. Again, the man there was looking to her. "Help me." The group swiveled to their rear and found more darkness.

Katarina smiled, her killer instincts satisfied by the fatal tricks. "Voices lie," she whispered.

The voice that answered her was of a girl her age: the spy she should have killed. "I didn't have a choice."

Katarina scowled, tired of the games, and motioned forward again. The group crept through brush with her, ignoring the voices around her- familiar or not.

"Really now, Boram. Would I lie?"

Katarina brushed aside grass and thought alike, but found it harder to dismiss when she heard her own voice.

"She won't say anything."

Katarina couldn't remember saying that before. These voices weren't recordings; they were masks for something intelligent. She was still moving through dense brush, wondering if Kalamanda's Forest had a clearing anywhere, and only stopped when she realized that the man fronting the concave to her left was missing. His buddy was gone as well. Katarina swiveled around to her right, searching for the man there, and was suddenly confronted by a voice she could not ignore.

"Drop your weapons," and a sword at her throat. Her eyes followed the blade up its owners arm, past the golden pauldron of a Demacian soldier, and finally looked into the face of Garen Crownguard.


	9. Human Pursuits

Brush and wind whistled quiet reassurances to the darkness in Kalamanda's Forest. Where humans feared to tread crawled the smallest of creatures and their simplified lives. The smallest at present was a scorpion, its tiny legs tumbling over leaves and twigs at the bottom the forest of grass, unaware of even the trees, let alone the world. The scorpion had recently abandoned its mortal struggle for food, enchanted upon the very moment it entered Kalamanda. The tiny creature was possessed now by the overwhelming desire to follow the strange call of the voices around it. Safety, they insisted, could be found underground among its brothers.

The scorpion traveled its tiny way there, towards a sense of belonging that it had never known, and sure that for once in its life, it had a home and a purpose. Meanwhile, in the canopy of trees above, a croal bird twittered its guttural song from the perch of a gnarled, black tree, humming to the wind's harmony. It fell silent as some passing humans ran into view, a torn body divided amongst them. The slain thing's ichor was dripping from them, corrupting the earth with evil magics from its poisoned blood and unnatural death combined. A nine-tailed fox followed close behind them, also out of place and disturbing to the local creatures. Some trees whispered amongst themselves inquisitively about the stray quadruped, swaying uneasily in their grass and vines, and were especially displeased when the humans stopped instead of passing through. The humans stopped, and the fox stayed to watch them, and the croal stayed to watch it, and the trees were forced to endure.

When half of the humans finally left, taking the body with them, the forest relaxed. But one of the men who had stayed behind made the mistake of not watching his step. One crushed scorpion later and the voices were forced to intervene. A pair of crystals at the forest's center, abandoned for eons, came to their eerie life again. With sudden hurry, the croal took flight. Kalamanda would not be safe until the humans were dead; The voices would ensure it.

* * *

><p>Garen brushed aside some grass only to find more, trying to keep his breath lower than the panicked pant it really was. Outflanked. Jungling. Enemy aware of presence. Half-strength. And now he was separated from the team. This was not a percentage or chance. This was mission failure. Footsteps nearby sent him low into hiding. Someone was moving his way in footgear he didn't recognize. Finding himself alone moments before, Garen had already drawn his sword. He fell to a crouch when the whispers came again.<p>

"Really now, Boram. Would I lie?"

In the following silence, the name tumbled around Garen's mind in search of a connection- Darkwill, he realized. Could Darkwill be here, in the forest? Garen pointed the tip of his sword at the source and advanced, stopping when the next voice came from above him. Dulcet and dangerous, like a dagger on silk, the voice of a woman asserted, "she won't say anything."

The footsteps resumed nearby, and passed Garen so closely that he dared not move the obfuscating brush, but rather crept through it sword first. His heart leaped up into his throat when a uniform flashed through the blades. Black leather with steel cuffing on the wrists and shoulders while the midsection was exposed. This was swordplay armor, built for one-on-one confrontations; This was an assassin. Garen crept closer, trying not to breathe and hoping that she couldn't hear his heart beating as loudly as he could.

Garen closed the distance, Heart hammering itself numb, until finally he could take it no more. She stopped, and he thought in that instant that she felt his presence, that it was now or never to strike. But she glanced the wrong way when he moved, and by the time Garen's blade was at her throat, she had hardly reached for her weapons. She stayed there, crouched with her eyes looking into their reflection on his blade, shocked. It was her, green eyes like pinpricks shining from pale skin hidden under blazing red hair. Emeralds set in quartz set in ruby. This was his target: The Murderer, Katarina Du Couteau. Having her so easily at the end of his blade, Garen could have died of happiness. But he knew he wasn't safe yet- that it could just as easily be her blades that kill him. The hands that he'd thought empty were gripping small daggers, and the hoppers on her hips were loaded with throwing knives.

Mustering the most commanding tone his squared jaw could carry, Garen ordered, "Drop your weapons." The threat was perfect. He saw the taught lines of the muscles on her throat constricting against the fear pulsing in her arteries. She was afraid. But Garen felt his eyes betray his own uncertainty when the voice of his mother answered from the darkness, "make me proud." The memory of her parting was still with him: "Kill as many Noxans as you can."

Katarina grinned as she felt Garen's steel press harder against her neck.

"Parents, huh?" she said.

Garen returned a scowl, but it was hidden behind the blue cloth that connected his pauldrons.

"Laugh it up, Murderer."

The title dropped her grin. Garen pressed his advantage.

"Surrender and I can promise you a fair trial."

Katarina's mouth opened to respond, but the voice of Boram Darkwill answered before her.

"In Noxas, Death is a promotion."

Katarina obviously disagreed. She dropped the blade in her left hand.

Garen nodded with his sword.

"And the other one."

But Katarina held it, unwilling to be at his mercy.

"Is that what you promised Sion? A fair trial?"

Garen pressed the steel harder against her, forcing Katarina off of her balance.

"Shut up."

"Call me a murderer again, you self-righteous-" Katarina balked at her error as Garen raised his sword to strike. But the look of shock on his face said something was wrong. Something had grabbed his sword arm and was quickly pulling him away into the trees. Katarina nearly cried out in terror when she realized it: the trees had grabbed him. Garen grunted and lashed out with his fist against the wood, learning very quickly that this was a losing fight. The tree was gripping his sword and pauldron, and would not be persuaded to release either. Fearing the unknown more than a human, he grabbed at the buckles near his shoulder and disengaged them, releasing his sword and armor in time to dodge the tree's swing at his head. His fall was not graceful, and he had the misfortune to land at Katarina's feet.

Not making the connection between violence and angry trees, Katarina threw the helpless Garen against the ground and pressed her dagger against his throat. The branch's second swipe caught her in the side and tossed her several meters. Before she could stand again, her feet were grabbed and lifted high into the air. The tree shook her, violently emptying the hoppers on her hips into the hungry mud below. Throwing knives rained, sparkling silver like confetti, and lodged into the ground below, above, something, to her. The mud solidified suddenly, an act of the forest's spirits, and Katarina felt up become down. The tree dropped her with the same care as Garen.

But the forest's good intentions would not outdo the evils of fanatical humans. With their pointy sticks disposed of, Garen and Katarina found their feet and rushed each other hand-to-hand. The forest had no tricks left, and no more care to intervene. If the humans wanted to kill each other, then let them, as long as they didn't take the other creatures along. Garen jabbed first, and winced when Katarina parried with her steel bracer. It had a special spike on the top just for enemy wrists. She bobbed his next two punches and landed a strike on his jaw. It wasn't steel, but she couldn't help thinking it was harder than her hand.

Grappling being his stronger suit, Garen lunged, wrapping his arms around her waist and carrying them both into the ground with his committed weight. Her desperate blows against the back of his head meant nothing, but he found his hands trapped under her body while she pummeled her fists against him.

"Call me a murderer again! You're nothing better, you-"

"Murderer! Assassin! You care nothing for justice!"

"Tell that to Sion! You murdered _him_! You had a choice!"

Garen got his feet under him again and used his trapped hands to lift and slam Katarina against the ground at his feet, knocking the wind from her. Katarina grasped something hard underneath herself and cocked and threw. The rock bounced off of Garen's eye socket and landed into his hand by chance. He tried to blink his vision back while she tried to stand, and he found himself gripping that rock with the hatred that accompanied revenge. He had never seen it properly differentiated from justice in any court, and could suddenly understand why.

"None of us have a choice," he growled. He pushed her down before she had her balance and sank to his knees over her. Katarina was pinned now, defenseless, in the place she had sworn to her father to never be. Garen grabbed at her arms, trying to restrain her fully.

"There's always a choice," she pleaded, slipping a hand free of his grasp. She hadn't imagined her voice that way, but the rock was in charge now. She used the spiked bracer to strike at the hand that was holding her wrist, adding, "I don't kill everything I touch! Noxus takes prisoners. Prisoners we don't _execute._"

She spit thick mucous at his face, too heavy to swallow and breathe through. The fight was already wearing on them.

"I know all about your arena," Garen grumbled. He backhanded her face, stunning her long enough to secure both of her wrists in one of his grasps. He pinned her hands to the ground above her head.

"A trial and sentence has more dignity than being pitted unarmed against wild beasts."

His facts weren't exactly straight, but she didn't have the breath to correct him. Her head shook. She was beyond caring.

"Just... people... like you," she gasped. "Optional."

Garen lifted his rock.

"Yeah. Well."

He breathed.

"We only... execute people... like you. Surrender."

Endorphins wild and death beckoning, Katarina found herself trying to suppress a giggle.

"Go ahead," she laughed, "Murderer."

Garen scowled,"You people know nothing of justice," and raised his rock the extra inch to strike. But the next borrowed voice to speak from the trees stopped him. The tiny spy, the mage of light, his sister, her solemn voice brushing through every blade of grass for all to hear: "My people know nothing of mercy."

Katarina felt the grim specter departing her as Garen's certainty wavered. Her father's words were all she heard as she saw Garen's distraction. Without Mercy, she drove a knee at his crotch, freeing her hands long enough to knuckle the nerve on his neck, causing him to drop the rock. She struck again at his windpipe. His balance kept, however, and she soon found that his hands were squeezing her throat. The earth was swimming around her now, blood no longer bringing oxygen to her brain. Her arm moved of its own training, knuckling against his throat and nerve, trying to loosen his grip. And in those final moments of darkness creeping at her vision, she couldn't help but think that she should have surrendered.

* * *

><p>The forest swam with commotion as fires in Kalamanda stirred up wind through the leaves. The humans were fighting again, their reach extended beyond their grasp by the strike of flint against steel and magic against life. Legions of men stormed through homes, cutting down cows and people alike, rending bone and sinew. But they did not touch the forest. Here, where the voices and creatures had gathered, were only two humans.<p>

Their armaments removed, their quarrels resolved, they still fought to the death. No meaning or reason had brought them together, and no such thing, it seemed, could separate them. And no effort of the forest had succeeded.

"So let them," the voices chided. "Let them tear each other from the folds of this world, but only so long as they do not take us with them."

Having given up, there was only the show, to see two proud creatures destroyed by themselves, by their nature. But while the forest had exhausted its magic and intelligence, a friend was nearby. A nine-tailed fox from a distant land had brought with it an unknown magic to use.

* * *

><p>The small quadruped lashed out from the bushes and bit Garen's hand with all of its might, shaking its head and snarling, tearing the flesh for infection. Forced to release Katarina, Garen turned his attention to the creature, only to have it leap out of his reach. He tried grabbing Katarina's neck again, only to have the fox dart at him from his other side and rend his other hand. Katarina was panting now, regaining her breath and vision. She knuckled at the tender above Garen's hip, trying to loosen his position on top of her, feeling him budging, partly from the pain, but more from the fox's pull. Katarina could feel the air now, the burn in her lungs and the headache proof that she was firmly planted in the realm of strife and pain- home.<p>

With Garen's balance too far off, she pushed him over and off of her, rolling away. It was only moments later that the fox bit her, securing its grip on her ankle just long enough to be a horrid little savior before releasing and disappearing into the grass. Garen panted and groaned, his thumb twitching under damaged nerves. Katarina only sputtered and choked, lightheaded and face down in the dirt. The grass where they had been rolling was thoroughly flattened now, and warm with their activity. Katarina was in no position to worry about where Garen had gone, so mused over that instead. She couldn't feel the cold of adrenalin or air. She was warm, cozy even, as if the warmth was spreading throughout her. Garen, likewise, was trying to find the source, but Katarina was within his reach and vision. He grabbed grass in that direction and crawled, pulling himself toward her. She kicked at him lightly, sensing his presence; hurting him, but not beyond what he was already feeling. Any effort he made to grab her ankle was equally futile what with his thumbs failing. She kicked several more times before she was finally too tired, and Garen crawled his way to her until he too, finally, was done. They lay there, panting and exhausted, staring at each other with the absolute terror of knowing that they could not defend themselves. It was only a matter of who got up first. It had come to that moment of grace where mercy would be begged for and not granted.

But a voice called from the forest.

"Why?"

Gruff and shadowy, it spoke. Another answered, calmer.

"Come on, buddy. You know game theory just as well as me."

"WHY? You have nothing against me!"

Several croals fluttered in their perches at the gravelly voice's shout.

"It's the Prisoner's Dilemma," the calmer voice answered. "I can't trust you, and you can't trust me. I didn't have a choice."

Katarina and Garen smiled grimly. Through repetition, the trick had lost its wonder. And the voices were quickly revealing themselves to be arcane recordings borrowed by some mute intelligence. Whatever their source, the voices knew their shit, and the message was clear. The recording continued, in the voice of a man who had lost the prisoner's dilemma.

"You always have a choice. And you're responsible for that choice. That's why it's a game. Because you can win. Because there's a right decision, and you can make it as long as you aren't a coward. You knew damn well you could trust me; You were just afraid. Well now you're gonna' die alone. I'll make damn sure of that. And until then... " the voice laughed, a sound like shackles jangling. "Until then, you have to live with yourself."

When the silence finally fell, Garen and Katarina, Katarina and Garen, the pride and joy of sworn enemies who couldn't remember their oaths, were left breathing in contemplation. Katarina tested her arm and felt enough strength to move. She did, rolling toward her opponent and pulling her way to him. She grabbed the rock en route and used her off hand to grab his remaining pauldron and hoist herself onto his chest. He could only stare through one, wide eye- the other was swelling shut- as she pulled herself face to face with him. He tried reaching a hand to her throat, where he was only strong enough to keep it there. She tried raising the rock, and found that she couldn't get through the pain in her shoulder blade. The scent of his sweat was distracting her, filling that warmth, overpowering.

But his hand glided past her throat to the back of her neck. She raised the rock, almost high enough to strike. His hand grasped. She reared to strike. It happened. Like a bolt of lightning, a memory struck Katarina from years forgotten of traveling a market in Zaun by herself.

* * *

><p>A merchant twice her age and half as attractive had stepped from the shadows and opened his coat to reveal pouches of strange liquids.<p>

"Nine-tails aphrodisiac," he'd muttered. "_Very_ powerful."

* * *

><p>Garen pulled her down into an embrace with his lips. The rock was discarded and the kiss was returned, and somewhere at the edge of Kalamanda's forest, a fox made its escape to the eastern shores and home. The borrowed voice of a merchant in Zaun trailed behind it: "Seriously though. Come back any time. I'll hook you up with whatever you need."<p>

Powerful indeed: the spell, or charm, or substance was overpowering every urge to kill that they had. Katarina's chest was pressed hard against Garen's spent muscles. She wasn't the only one bulging though. Hard and soft flesh grinded and rubbed as they found little reason to fight and every reason to bite. Katarina still wanted revenge for the ache in her head. She drew blood from Garen's bottom lip while he grabbed at her breasts and tugged them to his hearts content. Pain replaced death and was inflicted without mercy. It was Just. Garen couldn't help but feel that this was the woman he deserved, beauty with a scar- wasted potential- a murderer who confused her kills for justice. He rolled them over so she was beneath him, chest thrusting forward in pleasure while his hands made quick work of the straps on her back and tore the tight leather armor from her body. Blood dripped from his mouth, her bite being the closest a killer could come to romance. However much he tried to hate her for it, he couldn't help but be aroused as the liquid splashed across her nipples. He rubbed it around her bared breasts with calloused hands, rough, uncaring. She deserved his blood dripping on her just as he deserved the knife tearing through his armor and the reckless line it carved in his side. She had found it on the ground around them, no doubt digging into her while she writhed. The cloth fell away from his body and lowered his guard for her claws. Katarina ran her fingers up his chest, feeling the muscles ripple with desire and fear at her touch, and rewarded them with her nails. He groaned through his tongue into her mouth, tasting and feeling the mixture of oxidizing blood and heavy saliva perfumed by pheromones.

Around them, the creatures of Kalamanda's forest had gathered in awe. Bog lights and sprites came together with lightning bugs and luminoles to glow and shine in the hot winds of war and the warm breath of sex, staring in wonder at the strangest of all creatures and the many fluids a pair could produce. The spectacle ended with great moaning and heaving, like an erupting mountain casting off its flowers, and left the two warriors panting again; this time unafraid, their tender, spent kisses dotting each other's remaining flesh as they lay in the flattened red grass without cover. The knives protruding from the ground around them had carved them to near death and bled them until their hearts pumped almost nothing. And it was then, in that moment of bliss, of agony, that they finally surrendered. The spell vanished, leaving them exhausted and guilty, betrayed by their own bodies and hearts and minds. Garen rested his hand on her back, feeling the weight of her head on his chest and the painfully rapid thump of his dying heart.

"You're still a murderer," he whispered.

She bit him. Gently or as hard as she could, he didn't know. But she whispered back, "You too... paragon."

Garen laughed- actually laughed as he felt the blood oozing from his flayed skin and the daggers on the ground lodged into his back. Katarina's blood was rolling off of his chest, and probably through him in some places.

"Paragon," he chuckled lightly. "What does Noxus call me?"

Katarina whispered back, "'Executioner.' We had one. Before the revolution."

Garen smiled, slow and grim. His vision was fading, gray static replacing the red mist around his peripheries, when a funny thought suddenly struck him. The disappointed image of his mother glared at him as he murmured, "Don't take this... the wrong way..."

Katarina crawled several inches up his chest, bringing her ear closer to his fading voice. A strange reversal of her rage left worry in its place.

"But... I think..." Words failed him until he decided on a simpler course.

"War."

Katarina smiled now, feeling the warmth fade from her body as death joined them. The voices from the tree tried to answer before her, but had underestimated the desperate speed of the unrequited. So in perfect unison with the borrowed voice of Summoner Grieve, she whispered,

"Maybe in another life."

Katarina found her vision fading and eyelids falling in the most comfortable place she could think to die, wrapped in the arms of her mortal enemy's cooling body.

And then they woke, hours later on separate ends of the forest, to the sound of their equipment being dumped at their feet by thoroughly upset throwing arm seemed frozen in space, extended in perfect form. Her shoulders back, chin held high, and feet planted in a form of beauty, she saw little reason to move. And looking into her father's eyes, she did not see the disappointment of two daughters. She saw Noxian Pride. He didn't need a boy. And neither did she.


	10. Fleur under Funkeln

Garen woke to the sounds of pain and panic. War was raging in his ears despite the obvious lack of it near him. His sound ward was blaring from the ground. The shredded remains of his arm reached for it, Perseverance more than anything keeping him alive while the screams of dying and desperate men reached out through the arcane channels of the device, their tormented struggles calling to him- the siren of war. Garen clipped the headset to his ear and listened while he laid back against the trunk of the tree that had brought his equipment.

"_Gods damnit! Where's that sharpshooter?_"

"Pots! POTS!"

"Friendly cavalry incoming. Casters check your targets."

Garen reached for his kit, finding his pack and potions intact inside the nest of branches that had been woven for them. Thoughtful trees- an uncomfortable thought. He popped the stopper on one and released the air-hole on the bottom to shotgun it down his throat while voices- people- echoed and screamed around him.

"Jarvan! Back! Your flank, damnit!"

The king's voice. Garen was familiar with Prince Jarvan's brash decisions. A hard surge in his veins told him the potion was working; His blood was returning. Garen grabbed the next bottle and waited.

_One, Ser-pen-tine. Two, Ser-pen-tine._

"Damnit, Jarvan! Respond!"

"All units, this is General Laurent. Caution entering houses; I'm getting reports that they're trapped. Someone tipped off Noxus."

_Six, Ser-pen-tine. Seven, Ser-pen-tine._

"HQ, this is Pincushion. Extraction failed. We're pinned at Kumu Six behind the enemy force."

Prince Jarvan Lightshield, the younger, finally spoke. "Vayne, I thought you gave your earpiece to Garen?"

"Got a new one off one of your Lieutenants. He doesn't need it anymore."

_Ten, Ser-pen-tine. E-le-ven, Serpentine._

Garen uncorked the next bottle and waited with his hand over the bottom air hole cover, silent and passive to the plight of his friends. Exhaustion and the inability to inhale fully was debilitating to his empathy.

"Hold position, Vayne! I'm coming to you."

"No-go, Jarvan. We're taking fire. Retreating south."

"Jarvan, you foolhardy bastard! You're already cut off!"

_Fif-teen, Serpentine._

Garen shotgunned the second pot and reached for a third. A warm tingle in his extremities heralded the incredible pain of his sense of feeling returning. Hurried footsteps announced something worse: steel boots on cobble or stone- the road, Garen realized. A rifle sounded in the distance, followed instantly by a peck at the tree above him. The twang and swish of bolts responded as Vayne came into view. Three of the Vanguard were behind her; two men carrying the third, which left one man down somewhere. She was dragging Garen into a nearby bush before he could react.

"It's a Noxian fireteam," she whispered. "Two Rifleman, a Desolator, and two blades. We're countering when they catch up."

Garen nodded his understanding and guzzled the third potion. Vayne caught his hand mid chug, drawing her gloved thumb over the fox's bite marks on his hand before they sealed shut under the potion's magic.

Garen was expecting "I told you so" from her, but received only "Is Katarina still alive?"

Garen shook his head. "I don't know."

He could feel that he was moving backwards again, out of his bush and into another one. Garen had just barely managed to hold on to his nest full of kit, and was less than attentive as Vayne chastised and dragged him in.

"Damn it, Garen! We can't fight here."

She stopped as they entered a third bush, and dropped to a crouch beside him. The other two men took the break to feed their comrade a pot.

"Get your kit on, Garen. I can't carry you."

Garen slung the pack over his shoulder in a quick motion and hefted his lost pauldron back onto its rightful shoulder. He only had a moment to fumble with the buckle underneath it and secure the armor before another rifle report ricocheted near his head. Vayne forced him down and blindly returned a bolt.

"We're warded. Keep moving! Go!"

She pulled Garen to his feet and pushed him ahead, still firing. So the retreat continued, down the road towards a horizon of rising screams and burning houses. Bushes were available every few meters to slip into and out of cover, but Garen could not run, and his two comrades were carrying a third man- all that on top of Sion's corpse being split between them. The Noxans were catching up. Garen chugged his last pot and nearly choked when it shattered over his mouth. Another few centimeters and the bullet would have killed him.

"There!"

Garen ducked as another shot flew those extra centimeters down. The Noxans were on them. Vayne fired another bolt through grass, scowling at the lack of screaming enemies, feeling the dread of a tilting scale of power. They pushed ahead, out of bush toward another, and Garen had the briefest glimpse over his shoulder of the enemies.

The Desolator was a walking fortress. Covered in black, steel armor with arcane marks carved into his bracers, he stood a full two meters tall. Glowing seals dangled from his chest and back, warding off magics and jangling like chains. His weapon was a hulking spray-cannon attached to a tank on his back. Garen didn't need to know what was inside that. He sprinted to the next bush, feeling his legs burn and strain under their cuts. The Desolator was only ten meters behind them at most. Garen saw the two men carrying their wounded comrade ahead of him and knew, in a moment of dread, that they were severely outmatched if they let the Desolator catch up. But the enemy rifleman didn't need to catch up; His reach extended through the distance and silenced the man they'd been carrying, forever. His body slinked and fell from their arms to the ground, leaving their sword arms free to draw and turn.

Vayne and Garen finally agreed without speaking. This was the place to fight. Garen signaled his last two men to the edge of their latest bush with him, and watched as The Desolator came charging their way. But he could not fear death twice in one night. This was only excitement. The Desolator was almost within their grasp, only a few steps away, when Garen lunged. Vayne's bolt slipped through the eye-slits on The Desolators helmet while three swords found chinks at his joints. The Desolator groaned, his weight swaying under the confusion of so much pain. But when the swords were retracted for their next strikes, he was still standing. His weapon fired, spewing the noxious concoctions of Noxus in a wild arc that missed entirely. Garen slashed at his throat, scraping his steel against the heavy cloth and chain link there. The brute only roared and pushed his weight forward to swing a suddenly apparent vambrace. Garen ducked in time to miss the knives, and rose from his crouch in a mighty leap.

In his desperate swing, The Desolator had torqued his shoulder so far as to slide his pauldron one direction and his chain link headdress another, exposing his neck. Garen landed blade first, his steel delivering mercy from this world and justice from Demacia. _Executioner_, they called him- so be it. The Desolator groaned his last and crumpled under Garen's weight. But victory was short lived. Garen raised his gaze to the steady aim of two Noxan rifleman. In that sudden reversal of roles, Garen couldn't have been happier to have a man on either side of him. The riflemen would have time for only one shot each. The man to Garen's left charged, the rifleman adjusted his aim, and Garen felt a part of himself die of happiness. The rifles sounded like the shout of fate.

Jarvan never listened to fate. A cataclysmic eruption of dirt and rock sprang up around the sharpshooters, blocking their shots, and Jarvan appeared, his lance heralding a future that he had chosen of his own will. Screams and slashes echoed through the rock coffin, the blue ribbon on Jarvan's lance the only visual clue as to what doom had come.

Garen signaled his men sideways at the nearest bush and charged. "There're two swordsman nearby! Don't let them get away!"

The Noxian's charged from their concealment, engaging and falling swiftly to the Vanguard's swarm of blades and bolts. Vayne appeared at Garen's side just as the last man fell, her disappointed grim replaced with a reluctant smile towards Jarvan's wall of rocks.

"If you didn't save us, you'd have gotten us killed," she called.

Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth, Exemplar of Demacia, hoisted himself over the wall of boulders his strike had raised from the Earth. While his armor left the impression that he was a Demigod endowed with inhuman muscles, his face was just that of a mortal man. Jarvan slid down the rocks to his feet, patting one lightly for its novelty. Magic, not muscle, had displaced it.

Garen envied the magical aptitude, but he had done well for himself without it. He nodded and grinned when Jarvan met his eyes. Their old friendship said the rest before Jarvan turned to Vayne. Before he could speak, she interrupted- "Please tell me you brought someone with you."

Jarvan's head shook. "No. I've got another contract for you."

Vayne didn't react. She seemed frozen in her place on the road, stark in contrast to the dancing flames and screaming voices in their wards.

"And you couldn't wait to tell me?"

Again, Jarvan's head shook. "Yes or no, Vayne, but quick. I'll double your pay."

Vayne folded her arms, seeming incredulous behind her shades. "I can't spend money if I'm dead, Jarvan."

He nodded. "We're already cut off. We're already behind enemy lines. You can walk home or help me do this one thing and get extracted by a summoner."

Everyone's ears perked up at that. Vayne's arms unfolded and planted on her hips. "I'm in. Why a summoner? What's going on?"

Jarvan shied a guilty look towards Garen before answering, "We lost a spy in Noxus last week- thought she was dead. But as soon as the battle started she lit up her beacon. She's in a tavern called The Hasty Hammer."

He nodded his head, wanting to continue but not finding the words. Garen, meanwhile, shifted his weight and his mind uneasily, sorting through Jarvan's apparent guilt and what he had said.

"Luxanna," Garen finally realized.

Jarvan nodded, scratching the back of his head uneasily. "We need to get into the town ahead of our own forces, extract Luxanna, again ahead of our own forces, and then make sure that whatever information she has gets back to Demacia."

Garen nodded, not fully understanding but still trusting his friendship with Jarvan. "Why don't we just tell her to wait? She stays low, we capture the town, then we sort her out of the prisoners."

Jarvan's guilty look returned. His head shook. "Noxus is disguising fireteams as families. We were losing too many people to ambushes. Before Lux lit up, we... I ordered that no prisoners be taken."

Vayne nodded the conversation onward, towards the two Vanguards carrying the corpse. "We're taking Sion with us, then?"

Before he could answer, she interjected, "too bad we don't have any extra hands."

Jarvan's pained expression was half embarrassment and half annoyance.

"We're pretty sure Noxus is monitoring our sound wards, so I came alone and didn't tell anyone."

Vayne's silver-tipped sarcasm lashed. "That's fucking brilliant, Jarvan. They teach you that logic in college?"

Jarvan didn't care to respond. He mumbled, "The tavern's not far from here. Ready to move?"

Glances and nods confirmed. They moved, Jarvan leading and Garen at his side while Vayne and the last two Vanguards kept pace at the sides. Jarvan's idea of where the pub lay somehow involved traveling the exact direction they had been running from before; Up the road, its slow, stone curve circling around the battle until it straightened into Kalamanda proper, Noxus' flank.

The burning fires were no longer a part of the horizon. Garen could see the battle less than a mile ahead of them. The silhouettes of mounted lieutenants signaling maneuvers to columns of men was contrasted against squadrons of shadows clashing in door to door combat at the town's edge. The outlying structures had already been demolished, and many of the town structures were now being raided. These were proper buildings, many of them even Demacian in design, their sturdy walls slowly caving to blows and burns.

The sight was too much to appreciate at the moment, so when Jarvan turned off of the main road onto an unpaved avenue, no one hesitated to follow. Noxian civilians were running or barricading their homes, clutching their children close and praying- some pleading with their sons to not join the fight- while Jarvan and his mend strode through, uncaring to their plight. In the chaos it seemed even the people around them couldn't tell that they had Demacians in their midst. Several soldiers of Noxus even passed by without notice, hurrying to the battle with singular focus. Perhaps it was the dark orange tint of a night lit by embers, or the red hue of spilled blood on their cuffs that disguised them. Garen was more concerned with the civilians. It was all too surreal, how human- Demacian- these people seemed. But he would not lose focus to pity. Jarvan pointed to a tiered structure centered between several shops and shouted something no one could hear over the local agony. Jarvan didn't need to be heard. One of the Vanguard ran to kick in the door, and was just barely stopped by Vayne. She seemed the only person not disoriented into blood-rage by the blood and rage- like she was at home in suffering.

She pushed the vanguard away from the door and opened it by its handle, entering with the casual grace of someone who was definitely _not_ recovering a spy behind enemy lines while covered in blood. What she lacked in appearance, she made up for in poise. The people in the pub were drinking their last with no idea of it, making small talk about what being under Demacian rule might be like.

"Taxes is taxes," one man mumbled from the bar. "It don't matter what color the king wears."

"Noxus doesn't have a king anymore, you twat!"

"High Chancellor, then!" the first man yelled. "Duke! Grand General! King! Pirates and Emperors, the lot of them!"

Vayne scanned the room for threats, disinterested in conversation. She nodded and pointed out the windows, signaling something Garen didn't recognize but assumed to mean "entry/exit." Her boot stomped and dragged against the wood floor, checking for something it would only occur to her to check for. She sniffed and finally pointed "entry/exit" at the bar. Garen only saw a wall there, but trusted the instinct. Vayne turned to Jarvan.

"You know what she looks like?"

Ignoring the odd ritual, Jarvan and Garen stepped forward and glanced around the hooded faces of the pub, finally confirming with a shared glance. Jarvan tapped the ward on his ear.

"Carin, We're on site. Contact isn't here."

Summoner Lessa Carin's voice over the ward only carried enough for Garen to hear static and mumbling. Jarvan nodded, first to himself, then to Garen. "Check upstairs. We'll cover this floor."

Garen brushed past mumbling patrons to the stairs on the wall. Sliding between tables in full armor was not an easy trick, but the presence of an enemy soldier didn't seem to be trouble for anyone as long as his sword was sheathed. But making his way, the odd thought struck him that he hadn't seen Luxanna for almost five years now, since the beginning of his deployment. Would she even look the same? He stopped between two tables and turned, upsetting and worrying the patrons nearest for the moment in which his intentions were uncertain. He turned to Jarvan, about to ask a question, but was interrupted by the thought of Vayne's stomping ritual. Her glare was boring into him now. Garen pointed at her, then down, finally understanding. She nodded. Garen turned and moved to the bar. The bartender paid notice instantly, and set down the cup he'd been washing. His bald head turned down and his burly arms had planted against the bar uncomfortably by the time Garen reached it. The barman was the first to speak, his Kalamanda accent thick like good beer.

"Eivie's angvish?"

Garen paused at the question. He was distracted yet again by the bar. It had been carved from the same trees that moved in the nearby forest. The wood was a healthy black, like obsidian. "Eve's anguish," Garen realized. The bartender had asked "Eve's anguish" in a thick accent.

"I'm not here for a drink," Garen scowled.

The bartender picked up his glass and rag again, resuming his duties. "Zis is too bad." His gaze shot back up though, to Garen's side.

Vayne had appeared, the words "Eve's anguish" on her lips.

The bartender reached for a fresh cup, but stopped when Vayne finished, "Small thorns and a large mouth."

The bartender set down his rag again and nodded sideways at Garen, a question.

"He's with me," Vayne answered. "Hired help."

Garen wasn't entirely clear on what was happening. He turned back to Jarvan, who seemed equally confused.

"Well zen," the bartender muttered in a hushed, still masculine tone to Vayne. "Vhat is it zat you need?"

Vayne checked her shoulders in faux-concern and whispered, "There's a young woman here."

Garen nodded and stepped in, taking a stool at the bar. "A blonde about half a meter shorter than me."

The bartender nodded. "_Fraulein_ _funkeln_. Ze spy."

Vayne nodded. "Where is she?"

Their bartender continued nodding, their question an answer to one of his own. Vayne's posture was quickly, but only slightly, shifting to something more poised, like a cat's hairs raising for battle. When the bartender spoke again, it was not with the overt comfort of a man or a server, but with the underhanded cunning of a killer.

"I do not vwish to frustrate ze Might of Demacia-" his eyes shot to Garen- "or to make ze exemplar-" his eyes shot to Jarven- "feel less zan... exemplary." His eyes returned to Vayne. "But I cannot help you."

Vayne scowled, not seeming to understand what position she was in or how to move the conversation from there. Garen was quickly losing confidence that she was ahead of him and that she knew what needed to be said or asked.

"You already know you can tell me. So where," she strained to say politely, "is the... _fraulein._"

The bartender shook his head. "I know now zat I have made mistake of trusting you. I vill not make two. But you misunderstand me."

He leaned in closer to them and stated, more forcefully and just as loud, "I can not help you now. Ze _fraulein_ is not here."

Garen had gathered thus far that "ze _fraulein_" meant Lux. He was having trouble understanding why the bartender knew who or where she was, but Vayne seemed to understand. Her face turned past the barman, to a window down the wall, and revealed her expression to Garen: Fear. Surprise. And for Garen, the conversation very suddenly clicked into place.

Vayne turned back to the bartender, hoping for one last ounce of help, but was interrupted by his unhappy smile.

"No von can help you now."

With a sudden and well synchronized crash, the windows of the pub shattered. The door kicked inward, startling the last two vanguards and knocking Jarvan forward over a table. Garen turned to the nearest window and drew his sword only in time to see a blanket of velvet falling through the shower of glass. He saw it part for a moment, just enough for an emerald eye set in a vertical scar to glimmer at him. He saw, as he raised his blade, katarina's arms raise from her thighs, a knife under each finger. And he saw her spin.


	11. Inner Petals

Katarina winced and swallowed blood. She had not brought potions into Kalamanda's forest. Assassins were not meant to take hits. So there she sat, facing a tavern full of help that she was too weak to call for. A pile of signs to her right read warnings that came too late, and a pile of Sion's limbs lay in the bushes nearby. She had been too late. Another lecture lay in her near future, assuming her survival- and this lecture would probably be fatal. Katarina could only wait, then, knowing that if she could call for help, it would only kill her sooner. Garen would be more likely to save her at this point. The stabbing pain at her heart was at least partly literal. She spit blood. Her vision swam. Marcus appeared- the man with a presence that overshadowed death. He kneeled next to her and extended a potion in his hand silently. It was strange to her whenever he extended his compassion. Did she remind him of mother? Was his sternness an act? Katarina accepted it and drank blood and life, feeling the two mix in her stomach and spread throughout her as pain. Her wounds were splicing together, ignoring whatever dirt or disease had already breached it. Grieve would have work to do later. But when she finished drinking, it was not Summoner Grieve she thought of. Markus was still there, kneeling before her, his face wracked with her pain. She shook her head, giddy at the realization of what he was thinking.

"I didn't lose. Garen looks worse. We were fighting, but... the trees..." she made a clashing motion with her hands.  
>"It looks like you nearly died in there, Kat."<p>

She nodded, conceding the point, but froze when she saw the flicker of his nose. He was smelling something. And when his brow tightened ever so slightly, she could tell that he knew- at least knew something. He handed her another potion, produced from a bag that he had brought. He talked while she drank.

"You've been missing for about five hours. Demacia brought more men than we expected, and some toys we didn't know about." He waited for her to finish the potion before continuing. "The High Command has already retreated. We're on the Kalamanda Contingency now." His brow flickered over confusion and disappointment as he remembered who he was speaking to.

"I told your sister about that. I can explain later." Then he fell into a patient silence, and Katarina couldn't help but feel that it was her job to fill it with something he could be proud of.

"I can still get Sion back," she wheezed.

He smiled at the enthusiasm and patted her knee with a gloved hand.

"I'm glad to hear it, but..." His smiled warped, but did not falter.

"Sion is not worth my daughter to me." His gaze captured her, serious. "I would not think less of you if you were to join the retreat and leave with the High Command."

Katarina accepted and drank the third pot as he handed it to her. Her father, _Her_ father, did not want her to fight. Katarina didn't know how to react. So she drank and let the thought muddle around in her mind until it reached a conclusion.

"Why? Why would you let this go?"

Marcus's pain was very real now. He reached a hand for Katarina's cheek, but her head shook and she continued.

"I failed. Why did you come here? Why save me?"

She could see the patience in him, the cautious wait for her anger to abate. And when he saw that she was ready, he answered.

"You are more to me than you know, _mon fleur_. You are the inner petals of my rose and the end of my goals. And when I am dead, when you are free of my shadow, you will blaze like the brightest star. You will lead all of Valoran, all of Runeterra, to its rightful place among the order. I am here because you are my plan, Katarina. I am here because you are the summation of my worldly efforts, and the summation of every Du Couteau before me."

Katarina accepted another potion and chugged it. What were fatal gouges before had now become minor lacerations, zipping closed like a properly buttoned dress. She nodded, recognizing that tone of voice that father reserved for inspiration and drama. She could never tell what was serious for him. Was the plan a joke and his business as a Noxian General real? Or was the world just a distraction to him from his duty to her? Katarina settled on a better question.

"And what if I die? What if I try to rescue Sion again and the Demacian Executioner hangs me from his banner? What if I fail you?"

Marcus reached for her cheek. And when she tried to shake his hand free of her, he grabbed her chin and forced the contact. And he stared into her eyes like worldly distractions to the plan behind them when he answered.

"If you _ever_ feel death, then it will be _I_ who have failed _you_."

Katarina didn't know how to respond. She nodded, feeling more than seeing her vision focus. Marcus the blob became Marcus the man, her father and his few well-earned wrinkles. She felt his finger trace the line of her scar, felt the lights of the city blaze against her eyes, and realized then that it was fire. But before she could comment on it, a woman stepped from the shadows behind Marcus and stood at his side- Cassiopeia, Katarina's mirror, save the mistake of mercy. She was wearing the same dress they had matched in when the spy was caught. Katarina glared, remembering the unnatural tone Cassie had taken only hours before. She could still see the new posture was in place. Cassie had never held her head so high or thrust out her breasts with such bravado.

The twin's lips parted like cut skin. "Surprised to see me?"

Marcus' annoyed glance turned up to her. "Why are you still here?"

To Katarina's horror, this strange woman- this woman who was definitely not Cassie- set a hand on Marcus' head and patted him. "I have assets in Kalamanda, darling. You two, for example."

Katarina leaped to her feet and grabbed the imposter by her throat, dragging her to the ground under her weight. But when she drew a dagger for the kill, Marcus restrained her wrist and slapped her hard. Katarina recoiled in shock, releasing the now choking Not-Cassie. The impostor stood, her cough turning to an ugly chuckle.

"Did you _just_ find me out? Marcus, I thought you sent your daughters to the same school."

Marcus scowled at her. "Damnit, L-" he caught himself, mouth shutting like a trap over knowledge that Katarina realized was only being kept from her. She sheathed her knife and stood slowly, feeling a strained tendon that had not fully healed in her leg. But more importantly feeling a strained relationship with her father.

Marcus held up a hand at the imposter. "You don't need to be here."

Cassie's image flinched spite at Marcus. "_I_ decide where I need to be. Right now I've decided to borrow your daughter."

Katarina balked, but quickly fell to worry when she heard her father's response.

"She's injured. It's up to her."

The strange woman smiled, finally making a gesture that felt sincere. She extended a hand to Marcus and beckoned. With a nod, she added Katarina to the gesture.

"I think I've put my wrong foot forward for you, Katarina." She faced Marcus the whole time she spoke, sending him an entirely different message with her eyes. "Why don't we go have a drink? I have a friend here who runs a wonderful tavern. Do you remember, Zim, Marcus?"

His eyes sparked in the darkness, interest flaring. "Zimmel. He's Here?"

The woman in Cassie's form turned and walked without another word. Katarina glared at her father, looking for help more than scolding. He nodded for her to follow. Katarina made quick work falling in with him while he explained.

"We were hoping you'd catch on a little quicker. Cassie can't appear in public for a while and we can't afford to look weak."

Katarina's feet carried her where Marcus directed, past the Sudden Night Inn and into the street. She was reminded again of the burning houses and the screaming people, but remained more concerned with family politics. Katarina hissed at her father.

"Who is she!"

Cassie's borrowed figure stopped and turned on her heel to face them. With broken cobble supporting and the burning city framing her deceit she lashed, "I am not your sister! I am not your father! I am not Jarvan the Fourth, Ambassador Laurent, Duchess Karma, or any other fool who feels their identity secure! But most importantly, young lady, I am not an object of your curiosity! Marcus."

Katarina nearly screamed at the sight of her father's posture straightening in respect, as if this woman was Grand General Boram Darkwill.

"Yes?" he asked.

Cassie's impostor flinched spite at Katarina.

"Please impress upon your daughter the nature of the clandestine arts. We can't lose people to silly mistakes."

She turned and walked again, and Katarina felt her arm grabbed by Marcus. He turned her and led her by the force of his grip while his mouth ran quietly. Katarina could barely hear him over the cackle of the pleased fires.

"There are some things Cass was going to do. She's ill, so it's up to you now."

Cassie's silhouette mouthed "Ill" mockingly as she turned up a street away from the battle. Katarina was having trouble keeping her blades still, but Marcus' voice and grip were stern and firm.

"She's rude. I know. But if you trust me, you trust her."

Katarina tried jerking her arm free, unsuccessfully. "Why?"

"Because I'm telling you to." He pulled her closer and whispered. "Because this is part of a plan. And if you stray from it, I can guarantee you nothing."

He released her then, knowing that Katarina's loyalty to him would always extend to his word and its benefactors. He caught up with Cassie's impostor and discussed something with her angrily. Katarina wasn't sure whether to join or tag behind until the mean woman's hand extended back and snapped at her. Katarina's face was burning by the time she had joined them. The impostor woman promptly turned away and walked up the steps of a pub. She waited for Marcus to open the door, then nodded her thanks to him and entered. Katarina followed her father's nod inside.

The pub was well lit, not yet touched by fires or screams, but the air of Kalamanda's unease was obvious. The pub was empty, its tables and chairs lying ramshackle and ugly without the comfort of warm bodies. Katarina watched as the impostor, Cassie's image, took the center of the room, gown resting as if on a noble, beautiful in every way that didn't belong to her. She seemed to basking in the attention that natural beauty garnered, rolling her eyes at dust and sneering at dirty windows.

"This won't do, Grieve," she finally said.

Katarina startled at the realization that Summoner Grieve was behind her. He had been leaning against the wall by the door. His face was still covered by robes that swirled black and rust. His weight shifted forward, and he passed Katarina with an obscured glance that could have been contempt or wonder. She saw the veins on his hands were bulging and black, and the skin was far more wrinkled than earlier in the day when Katarina had first met him. He passed Cassie's imposter with obvious reverence, to the bar. And there, like a piece of the upholstery, was a bald bartender with thick arms and a thick accent. He spoke first. "Eivie's Angvish?"

Grieve's voice rasped like death while he took a stool, "Small thorns and a large mouth. And the drink."

The bartender reached for a fresh wine glass and brought it to the tap of one of many, small kegs. The nozzle control was a wooden, black rose. Grieve nodded to the bartender, accepting and drinking Anguish before turning to the deceiver in the room, the woman in Cassie's body, in Katarina's dress. Grieve rasped, "You don't like the pub?"

The fake Cassiopeia's response was not one of concern.

"If no one is here, then the person they are looking for is not here. You must add patrons to the illusion, Grieve. Are you alright?"

Grieve's hood swayed "no. Sion or not, Boram wanted his procedure-" he paused at the flinch-look that the deceiver seemed to use as a weapon. She nodded sideways at Katarina. Grieve turned to Katarina, then looked back to the imposter and nodded sideways at Katarina. The deceiver's head shook and Grieve sighed, leaving Katarina with no understanding.

"Oops," Grieve rasped. He drank more Anguish and knocked on the bar. "Zimmel. Run my tab 'till the bar burns down. Free drinks."

The bartender nodded, his sultry grin watching Cassie's borrowed form and silk dress take the stool by Grieve. Grieve was busy staring at Katarina.

"Sion," he rasped at Katarina. "Did you get Sion?"

"Patience, Summoner," the deceiver cooed in his ear. "Sion isn't the only thing that can make you feel better. Maybe you just need a... _Summoner's Outing._"

Grieve's head tilted toward her. Katarina was starting to feel like the fifth wheel on a tricycle as Cassie's foot started toying with Grieve's ankle.

"Grieve," her voice was cooing. "Catch a drift sometime. Summoner's Outing? Haven't you heard that story?"

Grieve's hooded gaze turned off into space while he thought. "Is that the one with the Elf and the Lizard-girl where they-?"

Marcus sighed and put an arm around Katarina, turning her away from the conversation. "We're waiting for another team of assassins. I assume the men you took into the forest are dead."

Katarina nodded and Marcus continued.

"The Ionian spy we had was brought by the Demacian Ambassador's envoy. Remember when you knocked out her tooth?"

Katarina shook her head. Marcus's eyebrows shrugged. "You slammed her face against my desk. The tooth had a nifty device in it: Like a ward, but more discrete. Well a few hours ago, the Demacian commanders decided not to take prisoners in Kalamanda."

Katarina was momentarily distracted by the high, punctuated laugh of Cassiopeia's impostor. She and Grieve were still engaged in pseudo-platonic flirtation.

Marcus continued. "So we brought the beacon here, and activated it a little after they gave the order. It's a fork."

Katarina's confusion became Marcus' disappointed look.

"I didn't teach you regicide, did I, Kat?"

Katarina's head shook. "Is that the one where you turn the little pieces into big pieces?"

Marcus nodded. "Pawns. Remind me about it later. The point is that by activating the beacon, we've put Demacia in a bad position. They have to send someone to this pub to recover the Ionian spy."

Katarina's eyes danced around the thought, not understanding. "What?"

Her father's eyes misted with patience while he held in a sigh. "If they send no one, we know that they have recovered their spy already or that she is not worth recovering. They don't want to reveal that. So if they think they'll win the battle, they'll go back on their orders. We're retreating right now and they didn't do that. The only other option they have for recovering their spy is to feed us a special forces team."

Katarina held back a sigh, and was worried that she didn't know if her own sigh was regret or something else. "Garen Crownguard."

Marcus nodded. "They'll send Garen Crownguard."

Katarina pointed across the room, at the bartender. "And what does he have to do with it?"

Marcus turned to the barman, Zimmel, who nodded his hello. Marcus nodded back. "It's his tavern, Kat."

"No," Katarina growled. Marcus' expression took a serious issue with her tone, but Katarina pressed on in anger.

"I know it's his bar. Who is he? How do you know him? Who is _she_? What's going on here?"

The door opened, admitting several Crimson Blades. Marcus straightened his uniform and decided on only answering one more question for the night.

"What's going on here is you're setting up an ambush. Grieve needs something dead for his health. Now if you'll excuse me," he finished, "Swain needs a supervisor if he wants any medals out of this." Katarina was about to turn away and fume, but Marcus grabbed her and pulled her into a full embrace. She thought for a moment that this was another of his all-important sentimental moments, but his lips fell to her ear and whispered his real parting words.

"Everything she says is a lie. Trust her with your life."

He was out the door before Katarina realized the contradiction. She only knew that she had suddenly and inexplicably been placed in the care of liars whom when was to trust, and lone-wolfs whom she was to lead. Garen she could kill, but not her doubts. She needed a drink. Katarina walked across the entryway to the bar and took a stool by the woman who was not Cassie. She signaled Zimmel. "What's Eivieie's Ang- whatever?"

Zimmel picked up a cup to wash, not meeting her eyes. "Iv you must ask, I must not tell."

Katarina glanced at Grieve, who was sipping his wine and very intently avoiding her gaze. Katarina glared at the barman. "I'd like one."

Zimmel, ever faithful to a club that Katarina was not welcome in, shook his head. "Ve do not serve zis drink."

It was a test. Katarina could feel it in the silent posture of the people she had been told to trust. She could feel it in the patience of the barman as he washed his cup. This was a game, just like the games the assassins she had been raised under taught her. She only had to learn the rules and then win. This was a game meant for Cassie, but Cassie was ill. Katarina thought back through the conversation, to the social cues she had gathered, to simple words with complex meanings, and wondered to herself what Cassie would do.

"Sharp thorns and..." she started.

Grieve seemed to sigh with his shoulders. She had said something wrong.

"... and large... Small thorns and a loud mouth."

Zimmel turned, poured, and delivered in a single motion. "Clozenough."

Katarina felt a soft tap on her hand as she reached for the drink- the lithe finger of her sister, of the strange woman who was using her sister's identity.

"You'll do just fine," the touch seemed to say. "Wait outside- across the street," is what she called out. The assassins left, and Katarina found herself looking into the eyes of this liar who was to be trusted. The deceiver spoke.

"Well done, sister."

Katarina summoned a stern look. "Don't flatter yourself. I knew something was wrong the moment I saw you."

Katarina felt her look slip when Grieve's raspy chuckle sounded. "We spent hours figuring out how to tip you off," he whispered.

Katarina's own spiteful smile was being reflected at her. "I have honed my craft to perfection, sweetie. You knew it was me because I wanted you to know. Now let's discuss this wonderful ambush that you are about to perform for my dear friend Grieve. He does love corpses."

Grieve nodded and rasped, "I do love corpses."

Katarina shook her head. "No. You don't know anything about me or what I do. There's nothing to talk about."

She stood, leaving her drink in a mixture of anger and pride, and walking to the door to retrieve her assassins. But the chilling sound of her own voice interrupted her. She turned on a heel to see that what had been the image of Cassie in a dress had now become a perfect mirror of Katarina, her leather armor and blades shining perfectly under the light. Grieve was watching from his stool, a bemused smile shining from under his hood. Katarina watched in strange foreboding as the deceiver rose from her chair, childlike wonder playing across the borrowed face of Katarina, looking to the heavens. Katarina watched as the image of her lips parted. She heard as the imitation of her voice sounded.

"You're too kind, father. I do only what you have taught me."

The inflection was perfect. Katarina swallowed fear as the charade continued. The mirror's expression changed to fear. The image of her scar bled, and when the deceiver's hands opened, she dropped the four pieces and three cuts of a prisoner's rope. The image sniffed and wiped away a fake tear.

"Even spies deserve a second chance, daddy."

Katarina's face flushed with the anger of betrayal compounded by insult. She drew a sword, ready to swear life for honor in mutual combat, but was horrified to hear her own voice speak before her. The deceiver had drawn the same sword at the same time, and was stealing the very words from her lips.

"How dare you! My private life is no concern of yours, and my loyalty to Noxus extends beyond anything you can ever know! I will never bow my knee to liars or accept the title of Murderer!"

The tip of Katarina's blade wavered under shock. The tip of her imitation's remained still.

She was still trying to comprehend the exact degree to which this spinner of illusions had copied and parodied her when the illusion changed again. Katarina watched as her imitator's cheeks flushed pink and bit her own lip. Her chest was heaving in sensual gyrations that Katarina didn't care to see in the center of a pub. She swallowed despite herself.

"That's enough!"

The mirror image opened her lips and released a quavering moan, and suddenly, Katarina realized what was about to revealed. She was panicking, breath heaving harder now than in the display before her.

"Shut up!"

Grieve was laughing, even in his feeble state. And then she said it. Her mirror image, the sound of her voice, the tenor of her panting moan broke and whispered, "Oh, Garen."

Katarina could have died on the spot. Every worst nightmare tearing her limb from limb would have been better. No sword could parry this blow. She covered her face, not hearing Grieve's slow clapping, not seeing the rhythmic washing of Zimmel's cups. The illusion disappeared before her, and the feeling of silk lips against her ear- the feeling so many had died with- that feeling was all that she was aware of.

"_This_ is the perfect ambush," the lips whispered. "Your first strike should be the killing blow, the strike that you have practiced and perfected your whole life. If you fail but smell blood, your second strike should be a bait. Make it convincing. And if the target falls for it, land another killing blow. But this time, strike where you smell fear..."

The deceiver sniffed.

"... or sex."

Katarina's breathing resumed. The room focused around her.

"One more thing, sweetie." Her image circled around her from behind, finger trailing over her cheek. Katarina slapped the hand and stepped away. Her foot slipped on a very intentionally placed cup, and Katarina found herself flat on her back.

"Try not to wear your heart on your sleeve when you do it."

Grieve and Zimmel clapped for the performance. But Grieve lifted his cup as well and announced,

"Jarvan is coming. I have seen it. Let's fill this pub."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>The reference to _Summoner's Outing_ was shamelessly stolen from the story _Seduced By The Deceiver_ by Waddlebuff. "The Lusty Argonian Maid" is the one with the Elf and the Lizard-girl where they-


	12. Neutral

Creaking floorboards sounded like doom above the heads of two stowaways. Their huddled forms were hidden under sackcloth between kegs in the basement of The Hasty Hammer Inn. The sound of footsteps above kept them there, oblivious to the coming war and fires, suppressed and pressed together on the final leg of their journey.

"You're too kind, father. I do only what you have taught me."

The sound of Katarina's borrowed voice caressed the cracks between boards as it descended into the depths, knocking dust loose with it and casting an eerie distortion into the rays of light that reached this far. One of the teens shivered. The older one scooted closer. The voices above continued.

"Even spies deserve a second chance, daddy."

Two blades scraped against their sheathes, drawn toward air and blood.

"How dare you! My private life is no concern of yours, and my loyalty to Noxus extends beyond anything you can ever know! I will never bow my knee to liars or accept the title of Murderer!"

Feet shuffled. Katarina's borrowed moans descended. The refugees hugged their concealment closer, hearts beating so loud they feared themselves not secure. Someone at the bar was cackling like death.

"That's enough! Shut up!" Katarina's voice.

"Oh, Garen." Also Katarina's voice.

Luxanna Crownguard peered out from under her concealment to the floor above, despite the previous warnings from her guardian. Rays of light were piercing the dust and darkness. The shadows that cut rays revealed the people above them. A hand shot from under the sackcloth and grabbed her, returning her to hiding.

Under the cloth was a boy she had met in Noxus' sewers, a street rat with more loyalty to lost women than any country. He covered her mouth and emphasized the need for silence with a finger over his own mouth.

"_Garen"_ she whispered. "Talon, my brother is up there!"

Katarina's voice, louder this time, convinced Lux to stay silent.

"One more thing, sweetie."

Something crashed upstairs, sending a table and some chairs skewing after it.

"Try not to wear your heart on your sleeve when you do it."

Two people clapped. The man with a voice like death spoke.

"Jarvan is coming. I have seen it. Let's fill this pub."

Another woman spoke after him.

"Thank you, Grieve. On your feet, Katarina. Meeting you was a treat, but I am unfortunately busy now. Remember: Kill, bait, kill. The first impression should be the only impression."

The door opened. The door closed. Lux moved to leave her hiding place, and felt Talon's arm wrap around her waist. He pulled her into him.

"_Not yet,_" he whispered. Lux could feel his heart beating as hard as hers. The sound of Katarina rising from the ground and readjusting a nearby table confirmed Talon's suspicion.

"Set yourself up," Grieve rasped. His footsteps traversed the floorboards and opened the door. "I'll gather the patrons."

The door shut behind him. A moment later it opened again for Katarina. It shut, and the only sounds in the pub now were of cups being washed by hand and set on the counter every few minutes. Talon released Lux's mouth.

"Jarvan!" she shrieked. "Talon, Jarvan is coming. We're nearly home."

Talon's pessimistic eyes were nothing more than black beads in darkness. "We're still in Noxus. Why is he here?"

Luxanna's smile didn't falter. "It doesn't matter. If Jarvan is here, there's going to be a whole army with him. He'll get us out of here."

Talon wasn't convinced. The Inn's door opened, admitting a rabble of drunks, and he hugged Luxanna closer as a reaction. Luxanna was starting to believe concealment was just an excuse.

"Free drinks," the barman announced. The sounds of merriment steadily increased in volume, but did not outweigh the stress of war in the weary voices. Luxanna reached her face up towards Talon's and kissed his cheek. He glanced down at her and raised an eyebrow. "What was that for?"

"Everything," she smiled.

Talon chuckled. "You can thank me when we're over the border."

The door was opening at regular intervals now, the volume of creaking and clanking steadily increasing and the pub-wide cheers in response to "free drinks" growing louder every time a newcomer arrived. But the door opened again one of many times, and the Barman said nothing. Talon's face strained at the realization. He slid the sackcloth away enough to look up, ignoring his own better judgment. Party of five, all wearing military tread. They were standing in the entryway, searching the room for something. One of them stomped.

"Gold," Lux whispered. "That's gold armor. They're Demacian. It must be Jarvan. We have to warn them."

Talon glanced down at Lux, then back up through the cracks. He froze. The woman leading the party was staring at him through a crack in the floor. Lux waved. Talon sent a hand signal Lux didn't recognize. Whether or not she saw them in the darkness wasn't clear. The woman turned away from them and spoke to two soldiers behind her. Lux didn't hear any of it over Talon's shuffling. He threw off their sackcloth covering and whispered,

"It's time to go."

Luxanna stood, stretching her limbs for the first time in hours. They had been trapped in the bar very suddenly when Noxian soldiers arrived unannounced. That was yesterday. Luxanna relaxed from her stretching in time to catch Talon's glare. He'd been watching her- checking her out? Luxanna blushed at the thought and hid her expression by tucking her hood closer. Talon didn't bother to hide his lascivious grin. He nodded her to follow as the sound of footsteps left the door and passed overhead towards the bar.

"_Come on."_

Luxanna followed, heart beating to the tune of imminent danger and ambiguous romance. She heard the scrape of her Demacian friends taking stools at the bar. Talon paused at the stairs into the bar, but nodded that he'd heard the scraping too. He passed it, moving to the other exit. She wanted to join her friends inside, but trusted his instincts. Talon stepped up the stairs to the exterior doors at the back of the pub. When he reached for them, Luxanna couldn't help but notice the contours of his lean muscle. Her blush persisted.

"I'm going to count down," he whispered. Luxanna released her hood, confused. Talon turned back to face her. "And then I'm going to open these doors."

Windows shattered in the tavern above them. Luxanna gasped, but kept her eyes on Talon. His unsurprised face demanded her attention.

"Luxanna, when I do, you need to get out and run away as fast as you can. Do you understand?"

Luxanna nodded and watched as his hand raised between them, counting down from

Five...

Tables and glass crashed under the clash of steel armor. Talon turned to the doors that would take them to the surface.

Four...

The cry of "Ambu-!" was silenced in time with the sound of daggers coating the walls.

Three...

Garen's voice. "Jarvan!"

"Run!"

The heavy twang- thuk- of a ballista and its target. The scream of whomever it hit flew out a window.

Two...

A crossbow. A mighty yell. Weapons clashing.

Talon gestured Lux forward as he threw open the hatch-doors to the outside. Heat and a screaming, red horizon greeted them. Luxanna was up the stairs and out onto the grounds as quickly as she could move, but stopped in her tracks at the sight before her.

The silhouette of General Marcus Du Couteau, the man with a presence to halt the fleeing, was lighting his cigar with the glowing embers of a fallen house. As he turned around to face the pub, to see the handiwork of his daughter, Luxanna caught the reflection of flames in his eyes. He dodged something, Talon, she realized, and the cigar was very suddenly cut from his mouth. Luxanna was frozen in horror at the sight. Du Couteau drew his blade part way from its sheath in time to block Talon's next strike. A blade had extended from under Talon' wrist, a discrete vambrace.

"Lux!"

She was shocked back to her senses by his voice.

"RUN!"

Couteau's blade lashed and sparked in the darkness and flames against "Talon's parrying vambrace while he drew a dagger. Lux ran under the fear of death, of losing Garen and Jarvan and Talon and probably herself in a single day. She ran. it was not a measured tread. She wept. It was not a hymn. She swore her service to the gods of war if they would spare her. It was not the Justice Pledge.

When her oaths and weeping and sprinting had finally deprived her of oxygen, Luxanna stopped against a burning house. Her legs were shaking, refusing to hold still, adrenaline coursing through them like battery acid. She had run until her mouth bled and world turned red. And still she was surrounded by war. The call of her homeland was raised somewhere nearby. She rounded the house and smiled- as forced as always- at the sight of Demacian soldiers. She ran towards them, down the row of houses towards certain relief, but slowed when some of their comrades exited the house they had gathered around. They had dragged the family from inside- a woman screaming to her three children not to worry. She was part way through the assurances when a man pulled the hair of her forehead up from behind and slit her throat. The children were not spared. Luxanna stopped when one of the soldiers spotted her. With Noxus at her back and- she realized part way through the thought what she was wearing. Talon had stolen these clothes for her from a Noxian market. The tapered cuffs were obvious, even on a distant silhouette.

She turned to run and bumped into the golden breastplate of a Lanceman. The soldiers around him laughed as they stepped out of the house Lux had just passed. She was knocked to the ground without a second thought, and could only shriek as she saw the haft of the lance rise above her. Its end was hers, gilded and sharp in the arms of a soldier. Luxanna had known from the moment her parents' voices heralded her conscription that this would come, that her violent, unhappy end was assured. But never had she imagined that it would be by her own nation's hand. Never had she thought this could happen- be done.

She was only saved by the fumbling grace of Garen. His broad, pauldroned shoulders soared like a giant fist and knocked the soldier over. There was a brief struggle and the snap of a neck before Garen was on his feet again, spear in hand and lashing out at the men who had gathered around. The sound of blades thumping against breastplates spun Luxanna around. She pressed back-to-back with her brother as the other squadron approached, cheers and bravado on their voices.

"Garen, hey!"

"What the hell!"

"_Nice_ tackle!"

"Shit! He's dead!"

A squadron leader stepped forward, weapon ready and rank blazing across either shoulder. Murder brought tension, but some trust for Garen still remained.

The squadron leader lowered his weapon enough to show he wasn't an immediate threat. He yelled to be heard over the fire.

"Garen, right? What's wrong with you, man?"

Luxanna pressed harder against his back, shying away from the swords and spears facing her now.

"Not this one!" her brother roared.

The Squadron leader grinned. "Spoils get divvied later! We got a job to do right now!"

"She's my sister!" Garen pleaded.

The Sqaud leader wasn't in a reasonable mood at the moment.

"No, she's _my_ sister!" The men around him laughed. Luxanna felt Garen's weight shifting uneasily at her back while the squadron leader continued.

"Look. Garen, I like you, man. But orders are orders. Professional integrity, yeah? Drop her or we drop you!"

Garen struck a quick glance over his shoulder at what Luxanna was facing. A fight against twenty men was not a fight. Luxanna sobbed and screamed, "Do it! Garen, do it! They'll just kill us both!"

She had already lost him once today, and couldn't bear to have his second death be her last living sight. Garen did not oblige.

"Kill me then! Whoever of you thinks he can!"

Luxanna felt the dirt beneath her feet slipping- mud, dirt mixed with blood, she realized. They were standing in a pool of Garen's blood. He had already been injured. He couldn't possibly hope to win.

"Garen!" She pleaded. He yelled back over his shoulder, "Get ready to run!"

The squadron leader backpedalled to his men while formalized a circle. Spears and swords had them surrounded now. Garen threw down the stolen spear and drew his sword.

"Come on!" he tried.

The squadron leader seemed genuinely disappointed. "Advance," was all he said. The circle tightened, perfectly synchronized. This was not a matter of honor for them, just a job that had to be done, just a war that had to be fought.

"Lux," Garen yelled.

She gasped, still sobbing and cursing her homeland.

"Duck!"

Spears surged forward and Garen pushed his sister down. A sword flashed over her head. Men gurgled. Metal clashed. When Lux finally raised her eyes, the sight around her was of more mud- dirt and blood. Garen's sword had slashed a circle of throats. He was impaled on the spear of the squadron leader, but still alive. She watched in horror as her brother, the same man who had cuddled her as a child, pulled the spear farther through him to reach and kill its owner. Another swordsman came at him from behind, weapon over his head. Luxanna grabbed at his foot, stealing his attention to save her brother. The swordsman kicked her grip loose and turned on her. Luxanna cowered. Garen turned, too slowly, and could only watch as the sword raised above his sister to strike. And in that moment that felt eternal, Luxanna reached for her final spark of optimism. Her hand extended on reflex. She felt the joy of her last years on Runeterra, of Talon's steady hand teaching her to parry with a vambrace, of the pride she felt saluting- extending her arm from her shoulder- during the Justice pledge, of the free-form swing of her arms when she had enough free time to dance in the gardens of Demacia. Lux extended her hand, releasing her luminous blade of hope to cut through the darkness. Optimism is sharper than flesh.

The swordsman's weapon sheathed itself into mud, a hand still attached to it. And the man, no longer with sword or hand, screamed his last at the sight of his severed limb. Garen's blade lopped of his head in perfect executioner form, dropping the last of almost twenty corpses to the ground.

Garen's wounds were mortal. His cheek had been slashed open, the spear was lodged through sundered armor, into his gut and out of a lung. His off arm was twitching under nerve damage, and still had several of Katarina's daggers in it. He would certainly die without fast attention. Otherwise, he seemed fine.

Garen smiled at his sister, a light chuckle in his throat. She rose from the ground and hugged him, crying or laughing hysterically; Together again.

Footsteps brought them apart. Garen raised his sword at the suddenly apparent Shauna Vayne. She emerged panting from the shadows between two houses, crossbow held ready. Everything but her face conveyed injury. She pointed at Luxanna.

"That her?"

Garen nodded and Vayne activated her ear ward as she approached them. Vayne put a hand on Lux and Garen.

"Carin. Jarvan's down. We have the spy. Get us out."

Lux and Garen slapped her hands off of their shoulders. Vayne, for once, was shocked.

"Hold on, Summoner."

She glared at them. Garen shook his head.

"I'm not leaving without Jarvan."

Vayne scowled. "He pushed you out of that window to save your life! Don't waste-"

"And I'll do the same for him!"

Vayne's scowl deepened, impatient. She grabbed Luxanna's shoulder.

"Carin. Now."

Luxanna vanished in a flash of sparks and light, too soon for her to protest. Vayne snagged a potion off the kit of a dead soldier and tossed it to Garen. She paused at the realization that all of the corpses were Demacian. Her head turned, and he saw her eyes dancing in the traces of footseps and blood sprays. Somewhere along the ambush, she had lost her shades and much of the skin near her left eye. Her gaze fell back to Garen, satisfied.

"Well done," she whispered, noting the circle of corpses and blurred footprint at the center. "They didn't want you to take a prisoner?"

He pulled the spear through his torso and shotgunned the potion. The throwing knives in his arm were ejected by the rapidly healing flesh. He nodded.

"Vayne. Be straight with me. Where's Jarvan?"

Vayne scavenged up another pot and tossed it to him.

"Straight? Well, Garen, he pushed you out the window. I escaped over the roof. The spy was in the basement. She got out through the exterior hatch. And the last I saw of Jarvan, he was outnumbered four to one."

Vayne tossed another potion to Garen and glanced at the corpses around them, commenting, "Although I suppose better odds have been won. Don't confuse luck with immortality, Garen."

She turned to her side- "No, Carin. Not you. We're going back for Jarvan-" and turned off her ear ward. She turned to Garen and sighed.

"No time to dawdle. Now or never. Ready?"

Garen stood to his feet, still holding the unhealed hole left by the spear before it.

"No," he smiled. "But let's go."

Vayne nodded him forward. "You take point. I'm not dying for this."

They moved, Garen leading them through alleyways between small and large houses, back into the dying heart of Kalamanda. He hadn't realized how far the retreat had been. Time or speed was not the same when life was on the line. The Hasty Hammer Inn appeared on the horizon, still standing. Garen couldn't help but notice the entire Noxian army marching down Kalamanda's main road. The sight of it made him realize exactly how stupid his plan was, but now wasn't the time to think.

He and Vayne sprinted off the road, towards the Inn's back and out of Noxus' view. Garen passed a corpse, the assassin Vayne's bolt had sent out a window. She swooped down and recovered the bolt as she reached it. Garen hopped up and in through the shattered window the body had exited, crushing glass as he landed on the hard, wood floor. Blood and bodies lay around the pub where they fell. The bartender was too busy cleaning cups to care. Garen raised his sword. The bartender poured a drink and set it on the bar for Garen.

"I am not a soldier anymore," was his only defense.

Garen bellowed, "Where's Jarvan!"

The bartender pointed out his front door. "A Nozjian Tactictian named Zvein set ze trap. No doubt Zvein vill vant to execute him."

Garen was tempted to slay the man just for his accent. "Zvein?"

The bartender licked his lips. "Yes. Zvein. Zv- how do you say?"

"That's what I'm asking you, damnit!"

Vayne appeared at Garen's side. She didn't make noise on glass, apparently. The bartender set a pair of glasses on the bar for her.

"Ven."

Vayne nodded. "Zimmel. Glad you're ok."

The bartender nodded. "Please tell him. Zvein haz Jarvan."

Vayne translated, "Swain has him," and turned back to Zimmel. "Where?"

The bartender pointed out his front door again.

Garen charged at it, kicking the handle and landing in the doorway, directly into what he was looking for. Jarvan was on his knees in the middle of the alley, arms bound and held by two men. His armor had been stripped away. Several Noxian fireteams were standing at ease in the area, watching with interest. The infamous tactician, Swain, was standing directly in front of him, sword resting on the shoulder not occupied by a crow. When the man spoke, the crow on his shoulder jabbered. It was never clear which one had the voice.

"We used to have an executioner, you know," Swain squawked. "Got rid of him. 'Every Noxian is born with the right to choose a noble death,' they say."

Jarvan grinned spite. "Makes sense if you can't afford a noble life."

Swain was not impressed. "Easy for a noble to say. In any case, I've never been fond of Democracies." Swain raised the sword from his shoulder and rested it on Jarvan's. "Is there anything honorable you'd like to say with your last breath?"

Garen answered for him as he charged. "DEMACIA!"

The men holding Jarvan down turned enough for him to dodge Swain's coup de grace. Swain didn't get a second chance. Garen's strike forced him to raise his sword to block. Garen's second strike decapitated one of Jarvan's captors while one of Vayne's bolts popped the eye of the other guard. Jarvan made quick work stealing a sword from the falling corpse and cutting his binds. Swain was backpedalling now from Garen's furious blows. But the marching column on Kalamanda's main street and the audience to the execution were converging. Jarvan slapped Garen's shoulder and tugged him back.

"Run! We're overextended here!"

Garen turned and pushed him ahead, towards the open door of the Inn and the straight shot through broken windows to safety. Vayne was in the doorway providing covering fire, her glasses recovered.

"You sound like your dad!" Garen screamed.

Jarvan smiled, "I'd like to be that old someday!"

Garen, the last man through the door, patted Vayne's shoulder as he passed her, then nodded a thanks to the bartender and hopped out the window after Jarvan. Vayne landed beside him and all eyes turned to the view of Kalamanda's main road. The armies of Demacia and Noxus had formed a line of scrimmage with a forty meter divide. Garen, Vayne, and Jarvan were about a hundred meters on the wrong side of that divide.

Garen pushed Jarvan out of his daze and onwards, into concealment behind a row of houses that ran perpendicular to the line. "This way. We'll join from the back."

Vayne caught up quickly, and was quick to express, "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Jarvan scoffed. "They won't fight. Noxus is retreating and we can't afford the losses. It's just a stand-"

An eruption of canons and the roar of thousands of men interrupted him. The houses shook beside them as the earth below trembled. And as the blasts rocked and shattered the land, the houses fell, the entire row cascading into thatch rubble. There was no concealment anymore, and the trio was exposed to the horrors of war in its fullest. The armies had clashed, metal and flesh screaming and soiling the ground.

But this was not what caught their eyes. Shauna Vayne pointed to a robed figure mounted upon a horse behind the Noxian lines, just equal with their position.

"That monk," she said. "He was with the high command."

Garen's face blanched. "That's no monk."

Summoner Grieve's hood retracted under the force of a sniff. His gaze turned from the battle to Jarvan. His hand extended their way, arcane wind billowing his robes while magical fire gathered in his palm. In the darkness of his hood they saw only death.

Jarvan sighed "That's a god."

Shauna had no reverence. She unslung the crossbow from her back, cocked it with her recovered silver bolt, and took aim with an attitude that balanced patience and urgency. "Gentlemen," she stated. "There are no gods."


	13. Smell of Fear

Glass shattered against Katarina's back. The wooden floor of the Hasty Hammer Inn met her feet. The hilts of ten throwing daggers fell into place at the tips of her fingers. Her eyes shot open, and in the reflection of a thousand shards of glass, she saw the shock of her foes. She saw the body of Sion carried by two Demacian soldiers. She saw Garen Crownguard. She saw Jarvan Lightshield. And she saw that they saw her. This was the entrance that would define her. This was her redemption.

The handles of ten daggers fell in line with the groves on each of her fingertips and her feet planted on the ground. Glass rained. All in terribly slow motion, the windows around her shattered, admitting more assassins. Katarina pushed off of her hind foot, arms raising, hair swirling like a whirlpool of blood. Her arms raised, and with the flick of each finger she released her blades and a smile.

That was half-an-hour ago. The rush and glory of perfect combat had not worn off. Now she was chasing the survivors- Garen and the woman with the wrist-bow. Three assassins were sprinting in Katarina's footprints as she rounded a line of houses and entered the fray of Kalamanda's retreat, chasing the smell of fear.

The street she had chosen was flushing bodies away from the battle. Noxian civilians, urged on by fireteams, were fleeing with what goods they could carry. Their red and brown garb was like a clot of blood choking an arterial street. The gold of Demacian armor was shining through smoke at one end, and Katarina was forcing her way through to it.

"Stay ahead of Demacia! Noxus lives! Don't turn back!"

A nearby fireteam leader held the door open for a woman to exit her house while he shouted encouragement. Katarina let the woman brush past her, then stopped again for her children, just long enough for the fireteam leader to salute on his way inside. Katarina responded- fist over heart- and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"What's our response, corporal?"

She pointed down the street, to the advancing Demacian squadron. The fireteam leader shrugged and pointed over her shoulder at the fleeing families.

"They retreat and we hold! Swain is rallying on Main. We push them out or die trying! Noxus lives!"

He gestured Katarina on and entered the house, closing the door behind him. Katarina could think of better houses to die in. She turned down the street and continued on past the two rifles poking out of the house window, towards the Demacian squadron and the forces behind it.

Screaming children ran past her with screaming adults, a whole mob of terrified people running to safety behind their army. And every passing person muttered to her a promise of solidarity as they left, and the ever sung "Noxus lives." Katarina saw only the gold-plated targets at the end of the street. She pressed through the crowd and charged ahead as soon as she felt Crimson Blades beside her.

The Demacian Squadron leader at the end of the street, a commander of nine, gestured a man forward toward a house. Katarina was too far to do anything but watch as the Grenadier stepped up to a window and threw an explosive through. The wooden door splintered under a child's burning corpse. No one else exited. A piece of Noxus had died, but the rest of Noxus lived. The heaving of the mob was its vital organs retracting and its sinister blades extending. Katarina finally closed range enough to loose some daggers. The grenadier crumpled, blood spurting from his neck, while the other soldiers raised round shields and formed a column. None of them were Garen Crownguard. Hextech rifle slugs pinged off of their shields. Katarina had no time to care. She signaled her assassins into the nearest alleyway and cut through to the next street. No Garen. He had escaped for the second time that night. Katarina pivoted on her heel, panting. The concealed faces of the men behind her offered no support. Her scar scowled for her.

"Main street," she spat. "We'll rejoin the main force."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm alive. The story will return to every-friday updates once I secure an income. :p Also expect a Morgana short.**


	14. Battle for Kalamanda

**A/N: I'm sot tired of Kalamanda right now. You don't know how happy I am to finish the last chapter of this battle. We'll be be back, of course, but Ionia calls.**

Sion the Brute's limbs were cradled in the hands of tender attendants. Summoner Sander Grieve's acolytes set the last of the Brute's many pieces into place- a leg- and scooted it closer to its torso. Sion's severed head was being washed in _aqua vitae_ while his hands were anointed in a distilled, black alcohol. Grieve was pacing nearby, muttering the preparations for incantations while he stepped between his disciples. Their hooded figures were just as busy, shuffling between rites and procedures, handling irreplaceable reagents and catalysts, foci and batteries. The magic of death was swirling in from the chaos of war about them, invisible to the giftless eye, and beautiful to Grieve. Every thump of the marching Noxian Phalanx was a drum thrumming fear and anxiety through the air. He saw currents of color; Everyone else saw smoke.

Grieve's pacing stopped when he caught eyes with Swain. The Tactician was mounted on a war horse beside the column of soldiers on Kalamanda's main road. Swain nodded and kicked his horse forward to the front of the column. Grieve's face remained a shadow beneath his hood. He turned and resumed pacing the alley in front of the Hasty Hammer Inn. And he was again stopped. Katarina emerged from the darkness at the other end of the alley. She had lost her second command of assassins for the night, and was bleeding again. A pack of civilians emerged from the shadows behind her, and scurried in the direction she waved, away from the battle. Grieve motioned her towards him, and gestured at the cut on her cheek. She waved away his help and walked past him, ignoring the acolytes and Sion's corpse.

"Soon you'll have more scar than face," Grieve rasped. Katarina was in no position to disagree. She smouldered without a response and instead watched the Noxian column march while she caught her breath. Grieve knew better than to ask if she was successful. Katarina had a question of her own.

"Where's Jarvan? Did you execute him yet?"

Her expression was a plea hidden behind an accusation. Grieve sighed, his ancient throat rattling. The anxiety in his tone and the graying skin on his hands reeked of a mortal's desperation.

"I'm busy. You brought us Sion. That's all that matters."

Grieve resumed his pacing and muttering, only to be interrupted for a third time. The front door of the Hasty Hammer Inn snapped from its hinges and collapsed under the body of a Noxian street dweller. He rolled through the blow and landed on his feet in the street, sword ready. In the doorway stood Marcus Du Couteau, armed and panting.

Katarina lunged to her father's aid, but bounced off of an invisible barrier in front of her. Grieve's hand was extended her way. His head shook. "They've been at it for an hour." Grieve lowered his hand. "Marcus insists it's a duel." Grieve turned from the battle, and with another waive of his hand, summoned a barrier to secure his work. The semi-sphere was illuminated by pinpricks of lightning around Sion and the summoners manipulating his remains. Noxus marched. Katarina breathed. The street rat, Talon, jabbed his sword at Marcus.

"I want your blade, Couteau!"

"You'll have it soon enough!" Marcus roared from the doorway. Katarina understood now; His anger was a mask for joy. Her father had judged this punk a worthy opponent, and would not be cheated out of a glorious victory. They lunged into combat again, and Katarina gasped at the realization that her father was backpedaling through the doorway, steel flashing inches from his face. Behind them, she could see the bartender, Zimmel. He was washing cups, unfazed by the complete destruction of his Inn.

"Fencing peels away the years on him." Katarina turned on her heel at the sound of her own voice. Cassiopeia's impostor was behind her. The accuracy in imitation was more unnerving than flattering. She ignored the remark, but couldn't ignore the strike and scrape of singing blades and slicing taunts echoing from the epic struggle in the Inn. The woman who had mastered the art of the ambush would not drop it so easily.

With Cassie's tongue, the deceiver murmured, "Father has been dying out of combat. I do hope this cures him."

"He's not your father," Katarina grumbled.

She received no response. Cassiopeia's form shifted with the courtly grace that belonged to it, and walked to Grieve's dome of sparks, trailing a finger along it as she circled, and trailing Katarina's unaddressed anger behind her. Katarina could hardly believe it wasn't her sister. It was Cassiopeia in form and essence, eyes sparkling in the darkness like the gems of a royal whore, minus only the detail that it wasn't her.

Inside the bubble, Grieve seemed to have reached the conclusion of his preparations. The acolytes stepped away from the corpse. One was completing a circle of chalk while another waved a censer on the edge of a chain. The details were finished, and the assistants joined their brothers in a silent line.

Grieve's hands reached for the sky, trembling under an effort that seemed too intense to be real. Katarina couldn't make sense of the arcane rituals or solemn reverence, but she could be awed by the result. In the sky above was a full moon, its face hidden behind the veil of black smoke and black clouds. Under the command of Grieve's extended hands, they parted. The moon's beam lit only Sion's corpse.

Katarina had not been warned about the Summoner's intentions. So when the dead body of the dead Sion displayed a very un-dead nature- when its pieces snapped together in a sudden jolt of magical energy, Katarina felt a similar shock in her mind: a moment of clarity in which the pentagrams, chalk circles, Summoners, and Black Roses suddenly had meaning. Necromancy- Grieve was using necromancy. His hands, now emanating a green smoke as if burning, were balling into fists at the moon. The swirling currents at his feet grew stronger and his robe billowed about him now, dust swirling in a vortex around his form. The powers grew to a gale, lifting him from the ground and raising dust. It seemed that it was the magic controlling him now, tearing his arms wide and forcing his chest forward. Even Kalamanda's smoke was being torn from the sky into the whirl, revealing its form as a complex series of rings around the summoner, each altering its course at the direction of his intense gestures. And just as Katarina thought the forces were too much for even him, Grieve's fists unballed. The torrent stopped. The dust fell, scattered back to nature. The smoke dispelled. But Grieve fell to the ground at a pace that seemed more his choosing than gravity's.

And Sion- Sion inhaled.

Katarina was no longer the only person to kiss death and live that night. And she hadn't taken it as far (with death, her mind chided) as Sion had. Sion sat up, his confused expression examining his many, bleeding joints. Acolytes rushed forward and subdued him with soft arcane puffs to the face. He was on his back and asleep before he could comment, and the acolytes proceeded to reveal sews and stitches.

"YES!"

The shout startled Katarina out of her horrified curiosity. It was the shout of a young man victorious. But her father and Talon were still fighting, still cursing each other in the Inn. She looked to the Deceiver in Cassie's body, then followed her gaze to Grieve.

"It has been TOO LONG!"

Grieve cast the hood from his head, revealing his face to Katarina for the first time. Where she had expected the wrinkles of eons was instead a boy with a full head of hair and flushed cheeks. He looked no older than her.

"Whoo! Yes! Emilia! Emilia, where- look at me!"

Grieve's face, frantic with happiness, found the eye's of Cassiopeia's impostor. She scowled at him. Grieve dismissed her objection with a wave.

"Oh, come on! Marcus was going to tell her anyway." He waved in Katarina's direction. Cassiopeia's- Emilia's frown was not appeased, but her voice took on a hint of seduction when she answered,

"I'd forgotten how stupid you were, Grieve."

Katarina was too overwhelmed by the nights events- Garen, almost dieing, the dead rising, youth restored, secret orders, forbidden magic, Eve's Anguish and now Emilia- she had to remind her self to breathe. She didn't follow the vagaries of conversation until it reached her side. Grieve slapped her shoulder lightly.

"What's wrong with her?" He nodded the question to Emilia, the woman in Cassie's form. She was draped over his shoulder like clothing, the place of every Noxian woman at court. Katarina nodded and smiled, then stopped when she realized the pre-cut response would not work here of all places. Emilia smiled and whispered something into Grieve's ear.

"Who wouldn't be, right?" He gestured at his face, then smiled as something sparked in his eyes.

Katarina was still getting used to the exclusion in conversations. She let Grieve proceed while she gathered herself. He nudged Emilia's head with his own.

"What were you saying earlier about _Summoner's Outing_?"

Emilia smiled and scooted across his shoulder until her lips were a breath away from his. "You're terrible, Grieve," she cooed.

Katarina's stomach retched, not sure whether to be more angry with Emilia's behavior or its accuracy to her sister's. Grieve's grin turned from salacious to humorous.

"Who was that girl I met in the Howling Marsh? Remember? When we toured the Serpentine. Ugh, that must have been twenty years ago."

Grieve nudged his nose against Emilia's and parted his lips, teasing a kiss. Her lips parted but backed away while she answered. Their pseudo-platonic flirtation had switched to pseudo-erotic. Katarina couldn't help but think they just enjoyed being watched. Katarina was more concerned with the clashing blades. Her father was in imminent danger and here were his two friends, chatting about sexual encounters to his daughter. Emilia's expression lit up.

"Do you mean the Summoner? Oh, Grieve, how could you forget dear, young Lessa Carin."

She swatted Grieve's chest playfully. His eyes flinched in a chuckle.

"Carin. I can smell her magic. Ooooooh, those were good days. I didn't remember feeling this rowdy though. No wonder I went hunting Nashor."

Grieve's grin turned mischievous. He eyed Katarina, his gaze flashing over her body.

"Hey, you don't think Marcus would mind if-"

A throwing dagger interrupted Grieve. He caught it with a magical barrier between his fingers an inch from his head.

Talon's voice rang out from the Inn.

"Ha! You missed, old man!"

"I won't the second time!"

Marcus Du Couteau had mastered the double entendre somewhere between leading men into camaraderie and courting women into battle.

"Lunge again, kid!" He added. "See what happens!"

Grieve's ego deflated like a sigh. He glanced over his and Emilia's shoulder, at his acolytes. Their preparations for transportation had finished, and Sion was now being lifted onto an arcane field table.

"Running out of knives, punk!"

Everyone turned to see Marcus pressing Talon out of the pub's front door. A loud clang and a sharp scrape sent the blade in in the younger one's hands flying through the air. Talon turned and ran, Marcus on his heels and swiping just inches from his back. But Talon was younger. He reached a house on the other end of the alley and made quick work scaling its roof. General Du Couteau had always been too old for parkour. He panted on the ground, frustrated, but happy about winning, and glared up at the street rat. Talon clapped his heels together and pantomimed a salute. Marcus snorted.

"Cocky punk."

He sheathed his sword while Talon leaped away to another roof and into the darkness.

Grieve whispered something crass into Emilia's ear. She swatted his chest again, but grinned her agreement.

"Don't worry, Marcus," Grieve called to him. "Youth comes to those who wait."

Marcus sighed and turned back to them. "I'm too old to wait."

He glanced at Grieve's acolytes on his way to Katarina's side. They had huddled together and were in the process of teleporting to the capital. Purple rings of arcane energy were warping space around them, humming. The teleport popped, air displacing. When Marcus stopped at Katarina's side, she swallowed her discomfort to ask him what was happening- with Sion's body, with Grieve's. He interrupted her and gestured to Emilia.

"Now that you've met: Katarina, this is Emilia. Emilia, Katarina."

His gesturing hand returned to the hilt of his sword. Emilia's head, Cassiopeia's, lolled away from Marcus, across Grieve's shoulder to meet his "I-told-you-so" smirk. She turned back to Marcus.

"You know I hate that name, _father_."

"Would you rather I call you-"

Marcus stopped short at a small victory. Emilia had broken character and flinched her threatening face at him. Content, he reached for a cigar, and felt less victorious when he found his cigar case missing. He glared into the darkness where Talon had escaped. Grieve noticed and chuckled. With Cassie's face draped over him, he looked no older than twenty.

"Kids these days, huh, Marcus?"

"Don't start with me, Sander."

Marcus' attention focused back on the houses suddenly. Everyone's gaze followed, expecting to see Talon returning for a second round. But a group of Crimson Blades emerged instead. Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth was carried between them with his hands tied. Marcus intercepted the soldiers in the center of the alley. The squad leader stopped at a salute.

"Sir. Extraction failed. Demacians on our flank. I already warded ahead to Commander Swain."

"So you brought him back to the line of scrimmage?" Marcus roared. He was barely done when the sound of hooves rounded the corner from Kalamanda's main road. Swain's horse stopped just short of the prisoner while several squadrons caught up on foot. He hopped down from the steed and brushed off his empty shoulder. The crow on the other used its feet to mimic the motion.

"General," he nodded to Du Couteau. The crow squawked. Swain spotted Grieve over his shoulder and nodded to him as well. "Summoner," The crow squawked. He was about to turn back to Marcus when he caught eyes with Cassiopeia's form draped over Grieve. The oddity struck him until she nodded. Swain and his crow nodded back in unison. Katarina was starting to think that the cool kids club included everyone but her.

Swain gestured at the Crimson Blades unit.

"No point handing him over. Put him on his knees. Might as well hold an execution here."

Swain's fireteams finished taking up their positions in the area. The platoon leader signaled his status to Swain, who nodded back.

"Wasn't your revolution about due process?" Jarvan chided.

Swain and Du Couteau traded glances over the prince. Marcus socked him.

"Cocky Punk."

Grieve chuckled at the sight. But he cut it short when Emilia whispered a thought into his ear. He glanced at Katarina, then turned back to the execution. Swain was directing the Crimson Blades to the center of the alley while he retrieved a sword from his horse.

"General," Grieve called. Marcus turned his way.

"The Demacians brought a summoner. Mind if I borrow your daughter?"

Marcus waived his ok. Grieve nodded for Katarina to follow him while Emilia stood from his shoulder. Katarina was still uncomfortable about the accuracy of The Deceiver's body language, but she trusted the duo. Per her father's directions, liars were to be followed. They lead to Kalamanda's main road, to the marching Noxian column. Grieve reached a hand out to his side as they walked to join the Noxian phallanx. Katarina looked away from the distraction and found, to her shock, that Emilia's disguise was now a male Demacian soldier. Emilia leaned over to her while they walked, and offered advice in a male's voice.

"Remember, Katarina, the first strike is the most important. But if that doesn't work, fall back on your training. The Measured Tread tells us that the fastest way to kill one man is to strike down the man next to him."

Katarina nodded in disturbed awe, and was distracted again by the arrival of a black horse. It stopped and kneeled at Grieve's side. He straddled it and suddenly grew larger than life when it stood. The horse was moving without command.

"Hey, Katie."

She glared up at the unnaturally young summoner. He flashed a smile. "If Swain stuck to the plan, the Demacian column is walking into a trap. Our left flank is a company of cannons, and the Demacian column is stuck in a corridor of houses. Our right flank..." he gestured strangely at the Inn. "Well it's a dead pub. Get set up where you want. There's a Summoner somewhere in their formation. Kill her if you can. Just don't die."

His horse shifted its weight, as if about to launch into a gallop. But it stopped when Grieve had a salacious after-thought.

"And don't sleep with this one."

The horse launched into its gallop before Katarina could retort. Emilia grinned at her side and grumbled through a man's voice, "Just be glad we're the ones keeping that secret."

Katarina turned away without comment, and joined the Noxian column on its right side. She didn't care where Emilia would choose to go. Katarina had borne enough jokes for the night, and was more content here, marching with regular soldiers, than in the vicious grip of intrigue. Killing, she could handle; This Summoner was going to die. The feeling of blades and blood stirred within her. Anxiety and Excitement howled like dogs guarding the gates of war. The pounding march filled her ears. The burning fury of unjust scorn roiled the storm of her anger. The echoed screams of slain Noxans egged her to violence. And then it stopped. Katarina was two men back from the front of the halted column, concealed behind the phalanx's forward shields. Less than forty meters of no-man's-land lay between her and the guilty. To her right was an alley between houses and the pub. She glanced at it briefly, surveying the terrain that she had pursued Garen over just an hour before. There were about a hundred meters between her and the Inn's shattered back window. From behind the shields, she couldn't see any summoner among the Demacian column.

An odd thought struck her. She looked back to the right flank. Something wasn't right. She peered into the darkness and caught the tail end of someone who had just sprinted from the pub to the houses. Two Noxian rifleman rushed into position in the Inn's window, but didn't seem to find any targets. Then one turned and yelled over his shoulder. Katarina couldn't hear him over the distance. It didn't seem far, but the cackling of fires and the winds of war masked everything beyond several meters. She saw his mouth move. She read it on his lips.

"Jarvan's escaped!"

Katarina's fury was beyond the point of safe return. The firing of Noxus' cannons was a muted thump in her subconscious. The screams of dying men and the trampling of the row of houses beside her was a breeze in the hurricane of her anger. The charge of Noxus was not release enough. But the three faces that appeared in the rubble of the falling houses- Jarvan, Garen, and that woman they had brought- these were like stars shining in the sky; these were fires that would burn until their last.

Katarina charged through thatch rubble, shrieking in blind rage and not even hearing her own voice over those around her. Jarvan would not escape. She would not be mocked for the incompetency of his guards. She saw Vayne draw a crossbow from her back and take aim- at Grieve. The trio hadn't seen her approaching yet. She passed over a support beam and sprinted with nothing between her and her targets. Now was the time. She could already feel the currents of blood running along her blades and vibrating the handles. But just as she reached for the veins on Jarvan's neck, the world exploded around her. She came to her senses facing the sky. Not a moment had passed. She hadn't gone out. Katarina leaped back to her feet.

Where she had stood moments before was a smoldering crater. The only untouched patch was in the very center, where enough land remained for Jarvan, Garen, Vayne, and Summoner Lessa Carin to stand on. The summoner lowered her arms, and the arcane fortification around her fell. Katarina looked past them and saw Grieve atop his horse in the Noxian column. He summoned a shield and began shouting orders to the men around him while Lessa grabbed Jarvan by the shoulder. The prince vanished in a flash of light. Katarina charged while Grieve threw a bolt of lightning as a distraction. Lessa couldn't save her people and hold the fortification together simultaneously, but she could switch between them rapidly. Katarina's window of opportunity was too small for error. She sprinted.

Vayne's crossbow twanged, releasing the silver bolt towards Grieve. It transmuted into a swarm of crows on the way. Garen raised his sword against the Noxian soldiers. Vayne struck Grieve's arm with her wristbow, then cartwheeled around a charging Noxian pikeman for another shot. Grieve threw his fireball again, this time weaker, and again it was blocked by Lessa's fortification. More pikemen lunged at the summoner, but were blocked by a Demacian shield. The line of scrimmage was becoming a mob. Katarina was almost on top of the summoner now. Only ten steps left.

Another bolt flew from Vayne's wristbow. This one did not transmute. Grieve clutched at his throat. The arms of Carin's beige robes latched on to Vayne. Flash- vanish- repeat.

Katarina raised her blades. She was almost at the Summoner's back. Grieve unleashed a final torrent of bolts. Lightning arced out like an extension of his fingers. Carin raised both of her arms into her shield. Garen and the other man were tightening their flanks to her as more Noxans poured on to them. Katarina lunged. And for a beautiful moment, she saw that her blades would reach their mark. But Garen Crownguard spotted her from the corner of his eye. He turned, blade extending toward her gut. And Katarina realized that he would not miss either.

Lessa's head turned slightly, seeing Garen's alarm, seeing Katarina at her back. The barrage of lightning stopped. Grieve slid from his horse to the ground. And suddenly, Lessa and Garen were gone.


	15. Victory

**A/N: Imagine and alternate reality in which I have a blog dedicated to Loco Buri. Imagine that in this alternate reality, I update with behind-the-scenes stuff every Wednesday. Imagine that you can find it by googling "Tormented Soil Blogspot." **

* * *

><p><strong>Victory<strong>

Garen held his hands at bay behind his waist. His mother, Lilia, had no such restraint. Her lithe fingers adjusted a lock of his hair. She straightened the cloth between his pauldrons. When he held still, she attempted to move pieces of him. When he attempted to move, she grabbed his shoulders.

"Hold still. You are appearing before the king, and you are representing every Crownguard before you."

She ran a cloth over a blur on his armor.

"Try not to look homeless."

"It's a debriefing, not an inspection," Garen droned.

Lilia slapped him. Garen was more than thankful for the discipline of the royal guards. None of the men stationed in the antechamber so much as smirked. That discipline would only hold until they reached a barracks. At least twenty men lined each side of the hall, and all of them had seen it. The General-Ambassador Laurent was the worst witness. His grin was Garen's hidden scowl. Lilia grabbed Garen's chin, demanding his attention.

"I did not spend my youth making you Prince Jarvan's friend just to have you throw my work away- like I am some... Noxian _whore_. Show your mother some respect. And watch your contractions around the king."

"I'm sorry mother. You're- you aren't- I don't..." Garen took a breath to think.

"I do not think of you as a whore."

He waited for another slap. He wanted it. "Noxian whore" was still casting a shadow in his mind. A piece of him would never leave the Kalamanda jungle. General Laurent placed a comforting hand on Lilia's shoulder from behind. His gold and blue uniform held the straight edges of his voice as he spoke over her shoulder.

"You know he will not be alone in there, Lilia."

She sighed, calmed by his words. "Can I trust you to cover for him, Laurent?"

Her hand covered his on her shoulder, a friendly gesture that implied her wedding ring. She turned to face him so his hand fell away. Laurent's head tilted in condescension. Lilia shook her head.

"Forgive me for asking. Thank you, General. You are a true friend."

She smiled to him, then nodded to herself.

Laurent nodded, and was going to respond before the door to the throne room opened. The king's steward beckoned Garen and Laurent forward.

"Make us proud," his mother mouthed to him.

Garen glared and brushed past her, walking the blue carpet by General Laurent's side. About thirty paces across the room, Laurent nudged Garen with his arm and leaned in close to whisper, "Don't sweat it. The King likes you. And I think you'll find that the blame is focused elsewhere."

Garen stopped and turned to the General.

"I lost nine brothers." The truth, if metaphorical, was all he could speak.

General Laurent seemed to disappear. In his place emerged Ambassador Laurent. He set a hand on Garen's shoulder and smiled through the pain of experience.

"How many do you think I've lost? The learning curve of a leader is measured in the fatalities of his friends. You will lose more. And every time you will know it was a failure in planning. You did not plan this operation. You followed orders. There is no blood on your hands. And quite frankly, it's a miracle Katarina didn't kill you."

General Laurent gestured to the open doorway of the throne room. "Come on. It's time to make an appearance."

The steward stepped aside as they passed through a golden doorway into the presence of Jarvan Lightshield the Third, and Jarvan the Fourth, the subject of his anger. The end of the King's tirade- "Corpses don't pay taxes!" was an abrupt contrast to the silence that followed while Garen and Laurent approached.

The King's armor and lance were in a case on the room's wall. His current drab was a dark blue robe with gilded cuffs and sparkling gems, like wearing the night sky. To his left was an empty throne for the queen. To his right, standing just beside his arm, was Summoner Lessa Carin. Garen had never heard of a female summoner before her.

The King's son, Jarvan the Fourth, was standing at attention a few paces from the throne. Shauna Vayne and Luxanna Crownguard were at The Prince's right. Garen stopped and came to attention at his left. General Laurent stopped to Garen's left and bowed in an extravagant show. Garen wasn't sure how to react. He saw Ambassador Laurent peek up at him and nod. Garen couldn't bow in ceremonial armor. He kneeled.

The King did not respond immediately. His eyes were weary of fury and heavy with thought, and he was not expecting formalities like this. But Carin's impatience shifted her gaze to him, moving only the hood of her robes, and he knew the wait was growing too long. A grin escaped his stern face. The King stood and folded his arms behind his back, then motioned for Garen and Laurent to rise.

"I trust that you've all had enough time to rest and recuperate."

The King waited for them to respond. Garen and Luxanna exchanged glances. This was the first time they had seen each other since the Battle in Kalamanda. The others nodded when they realized the question wasn't rhetorical. The King continued.

"I read through your reports." His sweeping glance lingered when it reached his son then passed on to the general.

"We secured our half of Kalamanda. That opens the trade corridor to Mogron Pass. We'll give Noxus a week to retreat, then we can move in. They've been taxing Demacian merchants on that route for years. We'll see how they like it." The King nodded the facts towards General Laurent, then turned to Luxanna.

"You did a fine job. And you lived. If you hadn't warned Laurent about the massing forces in Kalamanda, we'd have lost Demacian lives and land."

Luxanna's response was delayed. Her mind wasn't in the room. "Thank you, sir," her teen voice echoed.

"In fact," the King added. Summoner Lessa Carin stepped forward to his side, a jewelry box held open in her hands.

"Luxanna Crownguard," she intoned. "Step forward."

Luxanna marched one measured tread ahead on training. Her eyes and mind took a moment to catch up and focus. The King turned to Summoner Carin and removed a necklace-mounted medal from Carin's box. He turned back to Luxanna.

"For exemplary actions in the service of your country, I, Jarvan Lightshield the Third, King of Demacia, award you the Mark of Insight. May your unblinking loyalty to Demacia, and observance of the Justice Pledge, be a lesson to all citizens of this fine kingdom." He raised the necklace. Luxanna's head bowed under unworthy shame. The medal was just another weight to bear around her neck. The King nodded to her, and she stepped back into line. He turned to Shauna Vayne. She grinned, incredulous.

"Shauna Vayne," Summoner Carin intoned. "Step forward."

Shauna had not been indoctrinated to march. She stepped forward cautiously, eying The King with suspicion. He raised another medal. "Shauna Vayne. For your... selfless... devotion to your country, and your courageous defense of the Lightshield lineage against the assault of an enemy Summoner, I, Jarvan Lightshield the Third, King of Demacia, award you the Seal of Avarice, the highest honor any Demacian mercenary or privateer may be awarded."

Shauna bowed her head, her expression flat. It was everything she could do to not laugh.

"Not many people have battled a Summoner and survived," he added.

Shauna raised her head, now the proud owner of another useless trinket.

"I suppose even less have killed a Summoner," she answered.

Lessa Carin's condescending glare fell to Vayne. "Sander Grieve is an incredibly powerful Necromancer," she stated. "_If_ you killed him, he will not stay dead for long."

Shauna nodded, not wanting to argue in front of the King. She stepped back in to the line.

The King stepped over to the next person in line, and only stopped a moment to look his son in the eyes. He passed another few steps to Garen.

"Garen Crownguard," Summoner Carin intoned. "Step forward."

Garen took a measured tread. The King raised a medal. Garen had seen three of it before on the wall at home.

"Garen Crownguard. For your principled and unyielding justice and perseverance against Demacia's greatest foes, the Crimson blades; for your defense of the Lightshield lineage against an enemy Summoner; and for both of these in the face of utter defeat as the last remaining man of the Dauntless Vanguard, I award you the Quintessence of Valor."

Garen accepted the medal and stepped back into line. The less he said, the less he could mess up. The King passed him and smiled to an old friend.

"General Laurent," Summoner Carin called. He stepped forward.

The King raised a final medal from the summoner's box. "The Mark of Sapience, for excellence in your command of the field. Your outflanking of the Noxian retreat saved Prince Jarvan's life and many of your men from the Noxian cannons."

The general accepted his newest decoration with grace. Summoner Carin closed the jewelry box and returned it to her side. The King returned to his throne and sat.

"Demacia grows stronger. Dismissed."

Garen kneeled while Luxanna, Laurent, and Vayne bowed. As they turned to leave, Jarvan the Fourth's voice finally sounded.

"Sir. Permission to speak."

Garen didn't dare to look over his shoulder and watch. The King's response was clarification enough. "Denied. I'm transferring you to homeland division. Fifth Battalion lost its commanding officer in a skirmish a few days before Kalamanda. You'll be patrolling the Howling Marshes until I remember you exist." There was a brief pause before the King repeated, "_Dismissed."_

Lilia was waiting in the antechamber. There was another woman by her side. Her clothing seemed Zaunite- brass and minor techmaturgical aesthetics decorated with leather and supported by hemp cloth. Her hands were occupied with a notepad, and she quickly made sure that Garen was occupied with her.

"Garen Crownguard? Kaldera Carnadine, Journal of Justice. I see you've been awarded quite an honor." She gestured at his medal. Garen nodded, catching his mother's piercing glare from across the room.

_No contractions. Noxian whore._

Garen returned to the expectant gaze of the reporter. She was waiting for his response to a question he had missed. Zaunite speech was too fast for him. Laurent was growing impatient by his side, preparing to intervene.

"Excuse me?" Garen cleared his throat.

The reporter repeated herself with great impatience.

"You met Katarina Du Couteau in battle. We interviewed her just yesterday. Any first impressions about the Sinister Blade of Noxus?"

Garen was having trouble thinking. He saw General Laurent's weight shifting beside him, felt his glare. Garen swallowed, waiting for an answer to come to him.

"Speechless?" Kaldera teased. "I hear she's very beautiful."

Lilia's glare shot Laurent, urging him to step in. Garen coughed and finally answered,

"Commenting... on that... would be unprofessional. But she looks her best at the end of my sword."

Garen felt satisfied with his answer until he saw Kaldera's expression turn mischievously happy. Her quill set to work against her notepad while Laurent nudged Garen aside and set a hand on the reporter's shoulder. He turned her toward the exit, and she willingly turned with him, scribbling all the way. Laurent's voice sounded over her pen, trying to drown out its ink with volume.

"Let's not get carried away with puns. Garen Crownguard is the Paragon of the Demacian Warrior Ethos. If looks could kill, he would be dead, sure. That is not the case. I personally observed-"

Laurent flashed a look over his shoulder at Garen while he continued talking. The look was disappointment.

Hours later, on a balcony of the Crownguard estate, Garen found himself wearing that look and gazing out over Demacia's skyline. A cool breeze had made it inland from the Conqueror's sea, and was adjusting his hair. His armor had been discarded in favor of heavy cloth. The sun was setting over the city's domed architecture into a red horizon. He could close his eyes and see the fire and blood. His abdomen was still scarred from the spear he had taken to save Luxanna, although the wounds had been healed. That scar could be fixed. Others would remain. Garen's thoughts inevitably lead to his final moments as commander of a team. His nine finest brothers in arms were lost to an unmapped forest, without so much as a proper burial. And where had he been? In the lap of a Noxian whore.

Garen couldn't bring himself to muster hatred for her, or to believe it. The words in his mind were his mother's voice. The thoughts of striking Katarina down were the voice of a drill sergeant. None of the voices in his mind were his own.

"I feel like I'm still there."

Another voice, his sister's. Garen turned away from the balcony railing. Luxanna's solemn face was beside him, staring down into the city.

"I was worried about you," Garen sighed.

"So was I."

Luxanna wrapped her fingers around the medal on her neck, feeling its arcane warmth. Her eyes rose to Garen's with caution. He saw in the dying glow of the sun's last rays that she had been crying, or holding it in.

"I don't want to go back," she whispered. Even here, atop the estate of her name, she was afraid to commit treason to a pledge that had been forced upon her.

Garen did not respond. No one wanted to go back.

"I lied in my report," she confessed.

Again, Garen didn't respond. He wasn't sure what to say. But her expression demanded that he say anything.

"So did I," he finally conceded.

Her eyes were flashing between uncomfortable thoughts. "I don't mean... about those soldiers. I told other lies."

Garen nodded. "So did I."

He rested his elbows on the balcony's rail, and cradled his face in his hands. Luxanna approached his side, still gripping her medal. "I told them that I escaped. But I was let go."

Garen listened. He had no intention of sharing. Luxanna pressed him for support.

"I... I was in a general's house. He ordered his daughter to kill me."

Garen had handed the medal off to his mother. He never wanted to see it again. He couldn't look at that wall. Luxanna continued.

"It was Katarina Du Couteau. She had me tied up at the end of her knife. She could have killed me."

Garen's head raised from his hands. Luxanna was holding herself together as well as she could.

"But she let me go. And I... I thanked her. So... I'm glad you didn't kill her." Garen rose from the balcony railing. Luxanna took a step back.

"Do you... do you hate me?"

She was shaking in the cool breeze. Her light, blue tunic was waving in the wind. Garen reached out for her. She flinched, but he pulled her close into a hug. In his embrace, she finally felt the safety she needed. He felt her sob, heard the shrill whine that carried on the wind, and then the waves wracking her body.

"And when I was in the sewers looking for food," she cried, "I was trying to go back home, but I was lost. And a Noxian boy helped me, and he fed me, and he gave me clothes."

Garen patted her back. He had no consolation but his presence to offer.

"He lead me all the way to Kalamanda, and he helped me fight the Noxian soldiers when they caught us."

Garen knew the rest of the story. Luxanna continued speaking when her sobs receded enough.

"After all that time," she whispered. "I discover that my people know nothing of mercy."

Garen ran a hand through her hair. The setting sun ignited the golden domes of Demacia's buildings. He could still hear the voices in the forest taunting him. He could still see the false lanterns swinging in every direction.

"Garen?"

He peered down at his sister. She was wiping her eyes clear in his hug.

"Yeah?"

He hollowed out a smile.

Luxanna was desperate when she asked, "Can a soldier fall in love?"

Garen had every intention of avoiding that question for the rest of his life. He didn't answer. Luxanna demanded it.

"I mean... do you think love can bloom, even on a battlefield?"

Garen found for the first time in his life that he did not see virtue in the truth. Lying could make his sister happy. She was a soldier, and she would go where she was told. Garen and Luxanna and every creature under the sun knew that she would be told to return to Noxus, to find more of that information. If he could let her believe that there was a reason to go on, then he owed it to her to lie. Could love bloom on a battlefield? No.

Garen felt Katarina's bite at his lip, heard her murmured whisper: _maybe in another life._ And what a wonderful life that would be.

But no.

Maybe.

"Yeah," he finally whispered. "Yeah."

* * *

><p><strong>Victory Reprise<strong>

* * *

><p>Katarina took a free breath before entering the presence of the High Command. She opened the tent flap, letting in the rays of the morning sun. Several bleary-eyed generals glared her way from their seats around the table. The flap fell behind her, leaving them in semi-occlusion again. Swain was finishing an appraisal of the situation.<p>

"We're looking at about two-hundred casualties, mostly civilian and artillery corps. We denied Demacia most of the objectives that we lost. They took one windmill intact. The stone quarry will take them about a month to repair."

A general Katarina didn't recognize sighed and spoke up.

"I want to talk about those Magic resistance seals the Demacians had. Why didn't we know about those?"

His glare fell to Marcus, who still had his intelligence folder clutched tight.

Boram Darkwill's cheeks sucked in. "Seals. That's Iron... Mithrill?"

Du Couteau turned to a shadow in the room, Grieve, who was taking a moment to recall the details. "Seals... Orichalcum core, Mithril sigils, and a Steel base. For the magic resistance effect they would need several alchemical reagents- the rarest of which are Lotus Pollen and Nine-Tails blood."

A grim silence descended upon the room, and all eyes turned back to General Du Couteau.

Everyone had heard about the spy in his house, and where she had come from. "Ionia," didn't need to be said.

"How many Seals?" Darkwill queried.

Swain nodded, "A legion's worth."

"At most, a single fox can enchant three," Grieve calculated. His head shook. "But those seals were high potency, probably two foxes each. We're talking about three-thousand foxes at least; there must an entire industry involved. Ionia has to be complicit."

"If I'm not mistaken," Swain added with a nod towards Marcus, "we've fully accounted for Demacia's Mithril. And Ionia doesn't produce any."

"Bandle City," Darkwill sighed. "Piltover doesn't allow animal products past customs, and Zaun is allied with us. Demacia can't smuggle through the gulf. Any route from Ionia to Demacia would sail south to Bandle City. That's where they're getting the Mithril from."

Katarina felt engrossed in the intrigue, if a little slow.

"How do they move the metal from Bandle over the Great Barrier?"

She regretted the question instantly; No one would answer it. Darkwill shifted his weight uncomfortably while Swain scratched his head.

"Mogron-" another general mumbled. He was interrupted by Du Couteau's "No," and a wave of the espionage folder as an explanation. Du Couteau was himself interrupted when the tent flap admitted a Crimson Blade. The soldier stopped short of the table and came to attention across from Grand General Darkwill.

"Sir, the sharpshooter unit on the north windmill spotted something. It's an airship fleet crossing The Great Barrier. Bandle City markings."

Darkwill sucked in his cheeks again.

"Thank you, private. Get out."

He rose from the table, upright, and faced the many men around him with the disconcerting gleam of war in his eyes. Strangely, they settled on Katarina.

"You've spent some time in Bilgewater?"

Katarina nodded. "Yes, sir. I was-"

Darkwill motioned her to stop. "Once you're job is done here, I want you and Marcus to get to the shipyards. Marcus, I want you to draw up objectives for Ionia's production facilities. Start with a beachhead. Swain-"

"Sir?" Marcus interrupted.

Boram Darkwill turned on Marcus with a loosely contained fury.

"I have enjoyed this peace for as long as any of us," he growled. "But in case you haven't noticed, one of our cities was just SACKED by a legion of Demacian troops! And they didn't take a single, gods-damned prisoner!"

He paused to breathe, but obviously wasn't finished.

"They are being supplied by Bandle City. They are being armed by Ionia. We are at war with all three of these nations now, whether we like it or not. And you all know damn well how wars are won!"

What Katarina saw in her father's eyes was surety and caution. And when he opened his mouth to respond, the room fell silent to listen as if under a spell.

"I understand, sir, _why_ to invade. But you are asking us to invade _Ionia_."

"I'm not asking, Marcus."

Du Couteau nodded and held up a hand to finish. And as he continued, Katarina realized why everyone was so enthralled. This speech was practiced. She had heard it before. He had paced through the halls of their estate and uttered every vagary of it for the last five years. It was all part of a plan.

"General, Ionia is an island. And on this island there will be a citizen with a rifle behind every blade of grass. They will fight us to the last man. They will fight us to the last woman. They will fight us to the last child or sentient being. They will bring gods and creatures of myth down from their mountains that we have no knowledge of, and no way to prepare for. They will call down the very stars from the sky upon our forces. Even without that advantage, this is the birthplace of all martial arts. There is no tactician among us, apologies Swain, who has as much experience or study as their militia leaders. Ionia is the graveyard of empires. And that will be only in a single theater. This war will provoke Piltover, which will disrupt all of our resources in Zaun. This war will provoke Bilgewater, which will destroy our coastal economies. This war will include Demacia on our western front. This war will provoke Bandle's airfleets to our south."

Darkwill waved a dismissive hand. "Yordles. Please, Marcus."

Again, Du Couteau nodded and waited to continue. "This war will violate every mandate of the Summoners' League. I just want to be very clear, sir: If you give this order, you are dragging all of Noxus head first into a Second Rune War."

Where a profound silence should have engulfed the room, Boram Darkwill merely gestured to his favorite tactician.

"Swain, you should learn from Du Couteau. You know why Marcus hasn't killed me yet? Because a king has to take responsibility for things that are beyond his control."

He left the silence on his own terms, waiting for a challenge to his leadership. When no correction to his title or decision came, he pointed to Du Couteau. "When we're done here, you will ready an invasion force and a fleet." His point traveled to Katarina, who suddenly found herself thrust into a situation that was far more entertaining as an observer. "You spent a year in Bilgewater. You'll be traveling with your father to the coast. Go on ahead of him to Blue Flame Island and secure every mercenary contract available. Put a bounty out on anyone who sails under Ionian, Bandelian, or Demacian colors. You two are dismissed."

Marcus' hand found Katarina's arm and turned her to leave. He held the flap open for Katarina, blinding her in Kalamanda's morning rays. But just as she was about to exit, Darkwill called her name.

"Oh, and Katy."

"Sir?"

She turned and blinked into the darkness of the tent.

"Noxus needs a mascot. Morale and all that. You already have a little fame. Interested?" Boram's voice had an unusual tinge to it. Persuasion sounded like an uncomfortable effort on his part.

"No," was whispered in Katarina's ear. She resisted the urge to look at her father. She was about to jump at the opportunity.

"No, sir. If I have a choice, I'd rather not." She licked her lips and waited.

"Alright," Boram finally grumbled.

"Marcus, find me someone. And if you have any doubts when you get to the coast, remember Kalamanda."

Marcus Du Couteau nodded, and on his responding breath, the new battle cry of Noxus was born.

"Remember Kalamanda."


	16. Blush

**Be sure and check out Tormented Soil at Blogspot. It has all of my stories and some behind-the-scenes updates and explanations. Sorry this chapter's late. The rough draft was sooper-bad.**

* * *

><p>The land of Zaun surpassed nature. In the graves of glades had risen a thousand towers to the heavens. Each of their floors was a rung of the ladder out of the human condition. The great poet Xanathus, when asked about his visit during the First Rune War, had spoken thus:<p>

_Welcom to Zaun, where great bronze towers rise like the fingers of Man, his hand reaching to the heavens and grasping in his palm the elements of Rune Terra. The ethic here befits any seafaring vessel of life, that no man should exist by the cost of another. Every person, be He or She, Golem or Yordle, contributes his life, whether he steam or bleed as a result, for the bettering of our condition, and for the knowledge of all._

Very little of that statement survived the ravages of war. So as Katarina entered through the gates of Killik Naval Yard, she saw only this written on the archway: "Welcome to Zaun. Steam or Bleed."

The naval yard was flooded with commotion. Thousands of Noxians and Zaunites had gathered here to report for duty in the last few weeks, mostly due to a successful propaganda campaign. Katarina pressed her way through a line of volunteering conscripts on her way past check-in and into the compound. The clacking heels of her officer's uniform warned most of her approach, and most stepped aside with a salute and honest reverence, but the commotion was growing to a cacophony. She spotted a massive poster high above, a banner on a tower near the water: We are all Kalamanda.

Another soldier was pressing through the crowd near her.

"Corporal."

His head swiveled to her. "Mam?"

"Where's Division HQ?

He pushed closer to her in the crowd and pointed up to the bannerred tower. Katarina adjusted the strap on her satchel. Along with the mail, Father wanted her to grab a copy of each and every periodical on her way in. He didn't mention a two-kilometer walk from the gates. The crowd around her thinned out as she passed check-in, and chaos gave way instantly to order. From the gates to the shore was nothing but flat concrete and marching conscripts. Each new person was given a shower, a uniform, and a place in a formation. Everyone leaving check-in was falling in to a company and the maw of a drill sergeant. The company nearest her reached its quota and was ordered forward, marching into the fray of medical tents and obstacle courses laid out on the asphalt. She aimed for a long route around the movement. Soldiers that had passed their physicals were lounging closer to the dockyards. She could pass through them without causing a problem.

It added an extra half-kilometer to her walk. Zaun's smog did not make it better. But when she reached the aura of peace around the accepted soldiers, it was worth it. By rank patches, she could see that not everyone present had joined that day. The recruits were mingling with privates and corporals as best as they could. Watching them sit among the harbor's crates and relax without their kit on was a refreshing sight to Katarina. She slowed to a relaxed walk, but the calm was ruined by a realization. Katarina stopped and checked the faces around her. She was the only soldier. No one else bore a veteran's scars, or any pain, or any hint of what lay before them. These were civilians in uniforms. She turned to move on, but bumped with another person.

"Sorry, mam" was mumbled, and the person passed and disappeared before she could regain her bearings. Katarina snorted a lock of hair from her face and hefted the satchel on her shoulder again. A letter dropped from it. She kneeled to retrieve it and froze. She didn't have any letters addressed to Swain- especially any sealed with black wax and a rose insignia. Katarina stuffed it into her bag and moved on with every intention of hurry.

Fortune disagreed. And from the milling soldiers, she heard a voice as if from across time. Katarina turned to a group of soldiers several piles of cargo from her. They were gathered around the only girl in their squad, a teenager with wild motions to match an enthusiastic voice.

"No, really!" she was saying. "I _know_ her!"

"You know a general's daughter? What are you doing down here then?" Chuckles were had.

"Screw you, man." The girl's voice again. "We were in a ballet class together. I used to go to one of those rich people schools. I was there when she killed someone! I swear on my mother's grave she killed another girl with a hairpin for looking at her funny!"

Katarina stepped around one of the piles of boxes. There was another separating her from the gossiping squadron.

"Wait," a male mumbled. "I heard her first kill was the family dog. She _threw_ it out a _window_," he hissed.

Katarina paused, stung by the memory. All she'd thrown was a ball.

"Hold up," another man chided. "You always look funny. Why didn't she kill you?"

"I kept my mouth shut!" The girl responded. "She got kicked out after that, too."

"So you didn't _know_ her. You just saw her."

"No, I knew her! We ate lunch together a few times and I shared my pudding with her!"

"Shared your pudding? Eh? Eh?" The men whooped excitedly and laughed. The girl- Katarina could now see her arms were well endowed through the boxes- socked one of the nearest of her companions and sat back down.

"So yeah, I know a general's daughter. And she's the meanest, hardest girl in all Noxus. So if she really got ambushed by the Dauntless Vanguard, it's no wonder they're all dead."

"Yeah, but we're not talkin' about the Dauntless Vanguard," a man responded. "We're talking ab-"

Katarina stepped around the boxes, interrupting all speech with her presence and striking the men's faces with fear. Emilia had taught her well.

"Ten-hut!"

The entire squad slapped to their feet and faced her with a salute. The girl who had spoken had an especially rough time, since she was cross-legged and facing away from Katarina. But she made it up nonetheless, and nearly chocked when she realized who was before her.

The muscles in her arms were well defined, not thick- but efficient and noteworthy- without compromising a damn fine look. Her hair wasn't regulation. The silver locks were just long enough to grab in hand-to-hand, but that was assuming her eyes didn't grab opponents first. Katarina couldn't forget those eyes.

Katarina dropped her satchel and responded to the squadron's salute, remembering suddenly that she was a war hero in uniform.

"At ease."

She hadn't meant parade rest, but celebrities can't have friends- only peers and worshipers.

"I um... I remember your face, but I'm afraid I've forgotten your name."

Katarina could see doubt turn to disbelief on the men. The girl nodded and smiled tentatively.

"Riven. I changed it, mam."

Katarina nodded, mulling over the implication, then smiled. "I remember the pudding."

There was an awkward pause to be filled, so Katarina mused, "I haven't seen you for at least six years." She was having trouble finding a conversational topic. Riven's body was a female tank, with everything a woman or man could be jealous of, and nothing extra. Katarina found the place for jealousy in her heart suddenly occupied by someone other than her sister.

"Yes, mam," Riven responded. "It's been a while."

Katarina remembered the satchel at her feet. She was expected somewhere.

"Um, yeah. Hey, are you busy right now? I have to go, but we could walk and catch up."

Riven didn't respond. Her eyes were shocked. A nudge forward from one of her comrades seemed to set the cogs in her head running though, and she nodded.

"Yeah! I mean- Yes, mam."

She grabbed her kit, a black cargo vest, and sword, and was quick to join Katarina's side as she power-walked to the tower.

"So how did you spend the time, Riven? Why the name change?"

Riven squinted as she struggled into her vest and secured her sword holster. "My parents died the same year you... got kicked out."

She hid a frown.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Katarina murmured.

"Yeah. They didn't have much in savings, so I had to go to a state school. But I don't regret it, or anything. I love Noxus. Sometimes I just wonder how things could have been. I'm probably not cut out for Zaun anyway."

Katarina glanced her friend over.

"Are you Zaunite?"

"No," Riven laughed. "My parents were going to move here. So I spent a few years in orphanages, and then I joined the militia. When I heard about Kalamanda and the counter-attack, I volunteered for the main force."

Riven's face turned sour as she contemplated her own words.

"I wish I'd been there with you. Is it true they-"

"Every word of it," Katarina spat. "I watched them slit a woman's throat in front of her children."

Riven's eyes were disbelieving, but more filled with morbid curiosity.

They fell silent, and were accompanied only by the discordant marching of recruits on the concrete around them.

"Hey," Riven murmured. "Is there anything I can do? I mean, beyond this."

She eyed Katarina cautiously, still not sure if they were friends or co-workers, and still not sure how happy she was allowed to be in light of the topic.

Katarina stopped at the base of the tower- conversation had shortened the journey- and shrugged to Riven.

"I'll tell you if there is. I have to go, though."

Riven nodded, understanding Duty. But in her eyes, Katarina saw that she was still unsure about something else.

"Hey." Katarina opened her arms for a hug. "Still friends? Promise not to kill you."

Riven giggled and hugged her lightly. "Thanks, Kat."

"Gotta go."

She turned from Riven, leaving her to the grunt's life, and stepped between brass pillars into a structure unlike any she had seen before. For starters, the tower was metal alloys, not stone. And the limits on height and strength had been removed by the mind of some genius. Between the aesthetic wood walls and the outer shell was a maze of pipes that carried steam power and plumbing all the way to the highest floor. Katarina had always envied Cassiopeia's mind; She couldn't imagine the titans that had made this possible.

As she paced down a hallway, looking for the stairs, the envy transmuted. She remembered Riven and her body. Katarina had spent her entire life training under assassins and had less muscle to show for it. She was having trouble believing that Riven's pedigree- which was _not_ noble- was better. And why had the girl shown her so much reverence?

Katarina stopped in front of a set of brass doors. There was a button beside it. She checked her shoulders, ensuring that no one saw her, and then satisfied her curiosity. With the touch of a finger, the doors opened for a tiny room. She entered. This was one of the fabled elevators, she realized. Another row of buttons on the inner door had a special label for each floor. She pressed the top "Division Command" and felt the giddy high of guilty pleasure.

But when the brass doors closed before her, she was faced with the answer to a forgotten question. Why had Riven treated her with such reverence? Katarina's reflection was the face of a stranger. Her giddy smile was a predator's smirk; her relaxed swagger was an officer's bad day. And securing her hair in a bun had only reminded everyone of what she could do with a hairpin. Katarina saw as her smile fell dead in the mirror-doors. She removed the pin, letting the locks fall to her shoulders, then adjusted her bangs to cover her scarred eye. The spitting image of her sister stared back now, intelligent, sexy, and still completely unapproachable. She snorted the bang onto the other eye and the doors opened, removing the reflection.

Before her was a tight corridor, oppressive to save space, which branched around to a series of offices. She followed it straight ahead to the end, toward the office with her father's name on it, and opened the door.

What struck Katarina first was the view. The exterior walls had been replaced with floor-length windows that overlooked the entire Naval Yard, and the sky. Zaun on the bottom was not the same nation as Zaun on the top. Above the haze of industry was a land of riches and clear-blue skies that she had forgotten since entering the city-state. Up here, the wind was high enough to clear the skies, and exposure to the harbor allowed the current to carry away most pollutants. It left a clear view of murky water trailing towards Piltover, across the bay. All that could be seen of the rival nation was the reflection of the sun on its glass domes. Katarina squinted away from the sight to keep hers, and realized the she didn't have a full view of it. The light was merely a halo for the man in its center.

General Marcus Du Couteau, the man with a presence to block out the sun, was at the window, observing the movements of the entire 12th Infantry Division.

"Rifle combat will be supreme here," he grumbled. Katarina realized that he was speaking to two other men in the room. Swain, the Tactician, was sitting at a Regicide board with his back to Katarina. The crow was still on his shoulder. Swain's opponent at the board had a Colonel's lapels and his back to Du Couteau, but was too occupied with the game to look up and see Katarina.

"Ionia's guerrilla tactics will hurt morale," Marcus continued. "It causes frustration. The soldiers will think they're just sitting targets. We need hunting groups that can out-hunt Ionians on their own turf. And the soldiers _will_ be easy targets for those demi-gods- or gods. We need assassins that can kill them. We need fast response units that are faster than Ionian raiders. And our current assets are a horde of city teens that can't march in cadence, enough rifles for one-tenth of them, and enough ammunition for about half of those rifles."

Marcus turned from the window with a final note on his clipboard, and glanced at the regicide board just long enough to mumble, "Gods dammit, Swain. Use your knights. Mobile forces control the field. This is exactly what I'm talking about. Here." His hand swiped across the board, knocking the center clear. Four castles and most of the pawns clattered to the floor.

The colonel, Swain's opponent, heaved an annoyed sigh as a cover for his relief. The colonel's eyes fell from the board to a rolling pawn. It traveled across the floor to Katarina's feet. She closed the door behind her and held up her satchel.

"General?"

Katarina shied around the word, not sure whether military or social etiquette should win out.

Marcus, her father, waved a hand distractedly. He didn't look up from the board.

"One minute." He snapped a finger in the colonel's face. He'd been staring, and not at the board, Katarina realized.

"Sir?" the colonel blinked.

"I'll introduce you in a minute, Colonel. Pay attention. You too, Kat."

Marcus set two of the colonel's knights in the near center of the board, then scooted his king off of it.

Marcus pointed at the pieces. "These two knights represent Ionia's resistance. They can jump over any piece and are highly mobile. From this center position, two knights can cover sixteen squares in a full circle. That's _double_ the area covered by eight pawns in a column. From this position, they can respond to any move by Swain's forces in any way they please. From this _same_ position, they can capture any of Swain's pieces in two moves. They don't have a king, so you can't put them on the defensive. No matter where Swain puts his castles, no matter how many pawns he has, and no matter how close that king hugs his summoners, these knights can kill him. The only way Swain can keep his forces alive is by putting his own knights on the defensive, ready to counter, or to get mired in a guerrilla war that involves all of his pieces working in concert to take down just two of these."

Marcus did something more aggressive than a sigh and smoother than a snort.

"Darkwill didn't give us a victory condition. He wants a full occupation. That means we have to be stationed there for at least a generation. We're talking about one hundred years of deployment. Our current estimates for NON-combat casualties averages at two per day, assuming proper medical care and intact supply lines. That's almost six-hundred soldiers per year. We cannot afford the loss in morale, and we cannot afford the loss in manpower, that unchecked guerrilla tactics will add to that. We _need_ fireteams, roving bands of hunters that scatter guerrilla camps, stationed groups of ready-teams that respond to attacks, and infiltrators that can kill gods."

The crow on swain's shoulder shifted its weight uncomfortably. The man stared at Marcus' finger, which was emphatically pointed into the board. He nodded after a long time of consideration, then met Marcus' eyes.

"You haven't read Warwick's report yet, have you, Marcus?"

Marcus stood upright from the table and straightened his uniform.

"No," he grumbled.

Swain grinned.

"Rifles aren't our newest weapon."

He left it at that and turned to Katarina. She offered up the satchel.

"Mail. And I have one of every paper."

She approached her father and handed him the satchel. Marcus returned to the window with it and set to work reading. Katarina turned to the tactician. "Captain Swain, congratulations on your promotion." She nodded at Swain's new rank insignias and handed him the black-rose letter. Swain pocketed it.

Katarina turned to the colonel, pausing in the awkward embrace of his gaze. "Um... for you, Colonel..."

She offered up a letter for him and waited for someone to fill in his name.

"Keiran," Marcus answered from across the room. He was too busy reading to properly address them. "Colonel Keiran Darkwill, this is First Leiutenant Katarina Du Couteau. Kat, Keiran."

Marcus turned back to his window, eyes still on the paper.

Keiran smiled unevenly. "Uh... pleased to meet you," he mumbled.

Katarina nodded, but was interrupted when Marcus swiveled at the waist.

"Swain, come here. Take a look at B company of 3rd Batallion."

Swain stood and offered his chair to Katarina, who refused with a shake of her head. He hobbled to the window on his cane.

Marcus' eyes flicked from Swain to Keiran to Katarina. He nodded for her at Keiran's back, and then winked.

"Colonel. Do me a favor and teach Kat to play regicide."

Marcus returned to the window as Swain joined his side, leaving Katarina to the fumbling care of Boram Darkwill's youngest son. Colonel Keiran gestured at the open chair for her. Katarina looked at the chair, then at the pieces scattered on the floor.

"Oh," Keiran mumbled. "Here. Uh..." He raised a hand, then swirled it and contorted his fingers in an arcane gesture. The pieces from the ground rose and swooped to the board. A few landed upright in the wrong positions, but most scattered on the table's surface. Keiran grinned, impressed with himself. Katarina only knew that she had been placed in her sister's position once again, and she hated it. Keiran was another of father's guests for her to entertain while he did his business. This had nothing to do with regicide.

Katarina took the seat opposite Keiran and began setting up her pieces in a mimicry of his. Keiran knew magic. She didn't. Keiran had a Colonel's markings. She was a lieutenant. Keiran was Darkwill's son. She was a general's daughter. And despite all this, she felt an obvious and immediate sense of superiority over him. Her face was burning with rage. Across from her, Keiran was straightening out his pawns. He was given everything in life, and it was obviously too much for him to chew. He might win at regicide, but he was certainly losing what mattered. Katarina sighed, and as she finished mimicking his setup, she wished for a better opponent.

"Garen Crownguard," Marcus said. Everyone turned his way, but only Katarina found herself turning hopefully. Marcus tilted his newspaper towards Swain. "The... Journal of Justice interviewed Garen Crownguard about the Kalamanda incident." His eyes skimmed the article in silence for a moment. He and Swain chuckled at something in unison, and glanced at Katarina before resuming their discussion.

She was drawn back to Keiran's presence as he scooted a pawn forward.

"White goes first. Pawns can only move forwards and only one square at a time. But they can only attack diagonally. If a pawn makes it to the other end of the board, it gets promoted."

Katarina glanced at her father's back, seeing he and Swain pore over newspapers and make notations. She glanced back to the board and saw the knights her father had been praising.

"What's the best piece, Keiran?"

She watched him lick his lips tentatively. She was starting to wonder how Cassie handled men. She couldn't imagine sleeping with this one even if he was actually asleep.

"I guess it depends on what you want to do with it," he shrugged.

Cassiopeia knew how to use magic too. They were twins in all ways but one- and scars. Katarina pointed at her knight.

"What's this do?"

Keiran made a sideways motion with his mouth. Everything he did was a show of uncertainty and second-guessing.

"It moves in an L and jumps over other pieces."

Keiran continued mumbling about castles and summoners. Katarina ignored him.

"Gods damn," Swain grumbled. "Who writes this drivel?"

"Journal of Justice," Marcus mused. "New paper, I guess. League of Summoners. Is that?"

Swain and Marcus met eyes in a concerned glare. For a moment of brief silence, Katarina thought they were afraid. And that, more than anything else could, scared her. But the blankness became mirth, and the two men cracked into quiet chuckles.

"That kook Ashram is still at it," Marcus murmured.

"And he's still pushing the new calendar, CLE. He'll probably start a religion."

Keiran nudged Katarina's hand. She retracted it from the table.

"Your move," he mumbled.

Katarina scooted a pawn forward at random, still eavesdropping.

"You know he wants a female."

"Yeah," Marcus grumbled.

"You know he wants one in the military."

"Yeah."

"You know he wants a redhead."

"Yeah."

Swain eyed Marcus.

"Yeah," Marcus grumbled again. "He wants to marry a hero out of the service and into the family. If he wants a daughter, he can put a wig on Keiran."

"Sir?" Keiran had only heard his name.

"Queen's Knight to F3," Marcus covered.

Keiran turned back to the board to analyze the move. Katarina could hardly believe it. Her father's wink- Keiran's hopeful glances above the board at her- the very idea that she was to be part of an arranged marriage, was sickening. This was Cassie's place. Katarina listened as the conversation continued.

"Let's pick someone from the bottom."

Keiran's hand reached over the table and nudged hers gently. "Your mov-" She slapped it away and shoved another pawn forward, still ignoring him to hear her father's whispers.

"How about that Staff Sergeant from D company in the 4th?"

Swain followed Marcus' point and scoffed. "You'd need a generous artist for posters."

"Or a bag," Marcus conceded. "Alright. How about... look, this girl. She can wield a sword and she hasn't slept around too much."

"Too Much," Swain chided. "Any experience?"

"No. She joined the draft pool two days ago."

Swain or his crow scoffed. "Eevie's sake, Marcus. A sixteen year old?"

"I don't know," Marcus sighed. "Any word from Emilia?"

Katarina couldn't hear the response over Keiran. He moved a piece and sighed as an ice-breaker.

"I've heard great things about you," he tried.

"Like what?" she snapped.

Keiran's head lowered to the board.

"Terrible lies about your character," he mumbled.

Katarina found herself caught off-guard momentarily. Something about the conversation wasn't right.

"The good things you heard about me were terrible lies?" Katarina had heard this before. She didn't remember where, but it was flattering when it had been delivered by a master's tongue. Her father- she realized- had said it to her mother. This line was responsible for her conception, and- despite the cheese- was therefore sacred, not to be dropped by a buffoon's fumbling grasp.

"Well," Keiran mumbled. Charm and confidence had abandoned him at a young age.

"If they couldn't find anything true to insult, you must be near-perfect."

Katarina was seriously considering regicide- not the game. She wanted to scream her sins across the table at the insolent creep of an heir that Keiran was. More so, she wanted to scream his. But the conversation between Marcus and Swain ended before she could do more than contain her breathing.

"Keiran," Marcus called. "You have a knight at D5 and she's been advancing her pawns in a wedge."

He hadn't turned from the window to look, but it wasn't a question.

"Uh..." Keiran looked at his pieces. "Yes, General."

"Move it to F7. Check. Your Summoner secures the win in two moves from there. And stop copying my plays."

He set the last of many newspapers on his desk and moved to the door. Swain was hobbling that direction as well, so when Marcus beckoned out, Keiran rose from the table. Katarina was about to follow, but Marcus waved towards his desk.

"You're my new orderly, Kat. You need practice as a secretary, anyway. Wait here. A runner will deliver physicals results within the hour. Sort out a female in the top twenty percentile of the group. Can you handle that?"

She took a moment to consider, then whispered so Swain and Keiran wouldn't hear.

"Math?"

"Nevermind the method. Do it how you want. Just find pretty girls that won't die in their first battle."

She nodded- "Yes, sir-" and held her fury at bay. This was a job for Cassie, but Cassie was sick. Katarina was quickly growing sick of Cassie's tasks.

When the door shut behind Marcus, Katarina did not sit and wait. She took the private moment to satisfy her curiosity once again, and walked around her father's desk to sit in his chair. Once comfortable, she dug out the Journal of Justice from the pile of periodicals. She had spoken to Kaldera Carnadine, reluctantly- another task that Cassie should have performed- but never read what she wrote.

_Kaldera Carnadine, reporting from the Institute of War._

_On the morning of December 7th, 5 CLE, the City-States of Demacia and Noxus engaged each other in mortal combat in an unlikely arena. Where the two nations once feuded in abandoned fields, we now see that civilians are considered valid targets, and their homes are cover. High Summoner Reginald Ashram reminds our readers that this violence would not have occurred under League Supervision. Envoys to both City-States were sent and refused following the incident. But even from the smoking ruins of a city, good news can arise. Statements taken from representatives of both nations revealed an interesting- and inconvenient- truth for warmongers. Demacia named Garen Crownguard as their Paragon, the epitome of the warrior ethos and talk of the ladies. Meanwhile, Noxus cited Katarina Du Couteau as their Sinister Blade, to be feared by enemies._

Katarina skimmed ahead. She she wasn't interested in the whole article, and she wasn't a fast reader. Even Riven had been to school longer than her. Katarina felt another bolt of envy surge through her. Everyone else had the beauty. Everyone else had the civilian life of posh and the option to join up if they needed to. She was a generals daughter, to be married out to a general's son.

_Breathless._

Katarina had to reread the word several times, then the whole sentence. Then the paragraph. And soon it was she who was breathless.

_Demacia named Garen Crownguard as "Paragon of the Demacian Warrior Ethos," so the league saw fit to track down the elusive celebrity and take his statement on his first contact with what Boram Darkwill has called Noxus' Sinister Blade. The memory left him breathless, possibly for more reasons than one, but eventually he had this to say: "The Sinister Blade of Noxus is like a black widow- beautiful, but deadly."_

Beautiful. Katarina imagined her reflection on the elevator doors. She saw the scar, and the hard cheek bones. She saw the knife-like dimples of a predator's smirk. Beside it she saw Riven's rounded cheeks and girlish smile, and her rounded hips and feminine jawline. But Garen Crownguard, her mortal enemy- why would he lie?- thought she was beautiful.

A knock came at the door, a runner with the first of many papers. Katarina set the Journal down in a hurry, then ruffled it into the pile to hide that she'd been reading it. Duty couldn't be kept waiting any longer. But as she stood from the chair to answer, she caught her reflection in a mirror on the desk.

And she did not see the face of a predator. She was blushing.


	17. Speed Dating

**Forgive me, Cormac. The dark magic of the coven blinded me to FanFiction. Seriously, though- There's some cool stuff coming up in the story. After you read this, go to Tormented Soil at Blogspot and check out today's post and tomorrow's post. I think you'll like it.**

* * *

><p>After four years of barracks life, Garen Crownguard felt his weight sink into the edge of his own bed. The melding of satin sheets to his body was a stranger's embrace. The ornate silver and gold decorations of the room were curious eyes. Noble accommodations did not make his house his home. So Garen did not lie down. He sat on the bed that was his only in title, and stared at a wall that had been adorned per his mother's instructions, but even then not personally. Color schemes had been passed on to planners, inventory had been passed on to decorators, positions had been passed on to servants, and maintenance had finally fallen to the care of maids, until nothing but smudges from the fondling by impersonal minds remained.<p>

Garen had not seen this room for at least four years now. The desecration of its corpse, the rearranging of its parts, and the malnourishing absence of its owner had killed the room's soul. Garen was a husk in a husk, feeling the chaff within him sweep away through the open window.

"Can a soldier fall in love?"

Luxanna's question never left him. The thought kept crashing through his skull and into his imagination until he could never be certain if he was thinking it or if she was standing in his doorway. What had Lux done? Garen felt the judgmental glare of the mirror in the corner. He refused to face it, but could still feel his reflection. "What did _you_ do?" it was asking.

If his mother was to be believed, Garen had done nothing. It was she who had made him Jarvan's friend. It was Jarvan who had rescued Luxanna. It was Lessa Carin who had rescued them from Kalamanda. It was General Laurent who ensured that Garen felt none of the political fallout. It was everyone but Garen who had made everything happen. This room was just a closet where she could store him until the work had been finished and the puppet was needed. She had finished with him just now. And so here he sat, back in this tidied room, bathed and bandaged, and ready for orders.

"Can a soldier fall in love?"

No. The Measured Tread had never mentioned it. If a soldier could fall in love, the Measured Tread would have a whole chapter about what to do and why. Someone else would have mentioned it before. War wouldn't happen.

Garen paused at the realization.

"If soldiers fell in love, wars wouldn't happen."

It was a stupid question, and that settled it.

Garen turned, realizing suddenly that Luxanna was standing in his doorway. He couldn't tell if she had asked, or if he had answered. She only stood there, staring at him with nothing in her expression.

"I don't like my room," she said.

"I don't like mine," he answered.

"Do you think you'll ever meet her again?"

Luxanna didn't show any interest in his answer. Her gaze had left through the window as soon as she asked. Garen nodded.

"We have to kill each other. So, yes."

He patted the bed next to him, offering her a seat. Luxanna's attention was lost with the birds. Her feet followed the breeze to the window where her hands found the sill.

"His name is Talon," she murmured.

Garen found himself in the uncomfortable position of only being able to offer his presence. So he waited and said nothing while she spilled her secrets to him. Garen wondered if handing over a diary would have been a faster method.

"I never want to to forget that name," Luxanna said. She turned to her older brother, finally wresting her eyes from the window.

"Can you make sure I never forget?"

Her expression waited for his help. Garen wasn't sure what to do.

"Why would you forget?" He grumbled.

Luxanna turned back to the window ashamed.

"Mother says it's just a phase. She said a year of dating Demacian men and I'd forget him." Luxanna turned back from the window, but encountered Garen's shocked confusion.

"You... told mother?"

"Of course," Lux mumbled. "She's mom."

Garen couldn't imagine the naivete he was witnessing. Luxanna had been caught in an unfortunate paradox. She was too young to keep a secret and too old to afford honesty.

Garen sighed. "Well, what did she say?"

Luxanna's eyes dropped and her head swayed sideways.

"She said it's just a phase." Luxanna was mumbling at her feet.

"What _else_ did she say?"

Garen strained not to growl.

"She said I was too young to know what I want."

"Lux. What _else_?"

Garen couldn't see her eyes. She refused to look up and address him, adamantly hiding her face towards the ground.

"She told me not to tell you," Luxanna whispered.

Garen's sigh came out as a snort. He stood from the bed and turned to leave, but her cry stopped him.

"Wait!"

Garen didn't have enough patience left. He walked through the open portal and out into a hallway of dead Crownguards. The estate had survived hundreds of judgmental portraits. He turned down the hallway, Luxanna in tow, and walked with a vague goal in mind: Out.

"She said she wanted to talk to you!"

Luxanna's words, more than her desperate yell, stopped him. Luxanna's gaze fell away from him again as soon as his met her.

"Right now," she mumbled. "That's why she sent me. She wants to talk to you at her room."

Luxanna hugged herself. Garen still couldn't find patience. He turned down the hallway without another comment. Mother's hand-sans-presence was typical. Garen would rather deal with her in person.

"Still single."

Garen hated dealing with her in person. Lilia Crownguard knew how to flatter with an introduction, but she had never done it for him. He waited in her doorway, hand's held behind his waist, and answered only, "You called for me."

Lilia was applying jewelry to her age on a mirror. Instead of turning, she met eyes with her son in the reflective surface.

"I trust you are bathed and bandaged." She eyed the question to him.

The white and gold tunic with his family's crest across the breast was fine to look at, but it moved in breezes. After so long wearing armor, Garen felt naked. His mother gave the dressings an approving look, then scowled at a minute imperfection, then turned back to herself in the mirror. Garen nodded. "I feel presentable."

"Good," she struck. "Some friends of mine are coming for a little private party. In my absence, I have arranged for your company."

Lilia turned from the mirror, finally, and crossed her room in search of another mundane ward against death.

Garen's curiosity was piqued. He hadn't been told about a party.

"Who's coming?" The mistake caught in his throat. "I mean: Who is-"

"Contractions-"

"Who," Garen idled in his victorious interjection. "Who is coming? And why do I need company?"

Lilia took her time in answering. She opened a special jewelry box, large enough for an armory, but reserved for a single ring with a humble, onyx gem.

"General Laurent did you a great favor in Kalamanda, darling. I have invited him to bring his daughter. You will discuss trivialities with her while we adults discuss business."

She returned to the mirror and mused over her adornments while Garen mused over her words. Adult meant everyone younger than her.

"Is this a date?" Garen realized.

She returned to the mirror, where her upset glare found his unapologetic silence. Observing her ring was more important that acknowledging his question.

Garen stepped out of her doorway, obeying Lilia's silent wave. She didn't answer him, instead passing down the hallway with the knowledge that he would follow. Garen knew she wouldn't repeat herself.

"When?" He finally asked.

"Within the hour. A few minutes, I expect."

She paced down the hallway past bedrooms, and throw rooms, and state rooms, and an endless lineage of Crownguard portraits until, finally, they reached the entryway. The doors didn't open themselves. Lilia had to pause at their side and wait for her son to perform a servant's task before exiting the hallway. Garen had little time to wonder where the servants were, or better yet, why they weren't here. The time he would have spent thinking about it was abruptly cut short. Lilia froze as she crossed into the foyer. Her alarm was not at the beauty of the granite floor or marble statues or the copious amount of military decorations hanging on the walls, or of anything beautiful at all. Lilia was staring at a body.

Luxanna Crownguard was on her back, spread eagle and silent in the center of the floor. Garen was having trouble reacting in the face of so many contradictions. Only a few hours ago he had been at war, and now he was here. Only ten minutes ago, Luxanna had been alive, yet here she was. There was no blood around her, but she was clearly not moving. Here was his mother, her dispassionate face looking on with nothing but contempt. And he was left, staring in disbelief.

"_Pop."_

Luxanna licked and tucked her lips. "_Pop, pop, pop."_

In the assumption of privacy, this was her entertainment. She licked her lips again, smacking them for the sake of obnoxious noises, and the echoes they made in the colossal foyer. She finished the last volley of sounds with something reminiscent of an exotic bird's mating call.

Lilia approached closer, her heels quieter on the granite floor than what Garen knew possible.

Luxanna _pop, pop, popped _away, oblivious_. _"Harooooooo, blip, blip bli-"

She stopped as mother's face appeared above her. The moment of shock was replaced by training, and Luxanna hopped to her feet and saluted, hand patting her shoulder and extending forward.

Lilia stared, communicating her disapproval without words. Garen sighed and felt adrenaline shake free from worried muscles. A bell at the door interrupted what could have been a session of discipline.

In the following silence, Lilia nodded for Luxanna to answer it. The three of them turned to the door and quickly transformed into a functional family unit. When the door opened, the guests were met with a near-full house of smiles.

"General!" Lilia cooed. "You command quite the presence today!"

Her arms raised with Laurent's for a light hug. They kissed just off each cheek as a greeting, but Laurent stepped back from the hug and waved a hand to the extra guest he'd brought.

"It's _ambassador_ today, Lilia. Garen. Luxanna. I don't believe any of you have met my daughter, Fiora."

Laurent stepped aside for his daughter to curtsy and nod. She was tall- physically taller than Lilia and Luxanna, but in stature, she towered even over Garen. Extra room had to be made for her ego. Even during her curtsy, her chin never stooped as low as the horizon, nor did her eyes ever look up to see anyone. Garen was taller than her, and still suffered the indignity of having her look down her nose at him.

Her chosen outfit for the day was a stylish dueling onepiece. The skin-tight leather left little to the imagination, but was adorned with fashionable padding and accessories, leaving a stylish tease. A white and gold vest hid the form of her breasts while golden greaves accentuated her thighs.

A light cough from Lilia reminded Garen not to stare. He resisted a nervous blush, and stepped back for the guests to enter. They did, but Fiora's analytical glare never left Garen. The banter between Laurent and Lilia quickly resumed.

"Did Brickhouse get here yet? I've heard great things about his son."

"I still remember him as little Lionel playing with toy ships," Lilia cooed.

Laurent smiled to Lilia as he removed his traveling gloves. Her head shook, "but no," and she turned to Garen.

"You should show Miss Laurent our Gardens, Garen. Luxanna, do accompany them. The house servants will return and serve a mid-afternoon luncheon in about two hours."

She turned back to Laurent and held his gaze very seriously. They stayed that way, quiet, while Garen offered his arm to Fiora. And as the trio exited through the front door, the two parents remained, their glares locked in a silent and serious discussion.

The gardens of the Crownguard estate had no fountains. Garen had only statues and shrubs at his disposal. So as his arm guided Fiora to the side garden, and as gravel gave way to grass, she did not gasp with awe.

A contemptuous snort- "Hm-" was her only comment.

Garen peered over his shoulder at Luxanna, behind him. She was tracking their every motion with a childish grin and flushed cheeks. Garen sighed. But she was right. This was a date, and he was expected to entertain.

They stopped at the garden's entry, where a statue of Nathaniel Crownguard greeted them. The silence beckoned Garen's tongue.

"I hear you're a duelist," was all he could think to say. "What's that like?"

Fiora stared at the statue before them with disinterest- less disinterest than she had for Garen. For a long while, Garen thought she would never respond. But just as his ice breaker had been forgotten, she answered, "who is this?"

She nodded upwards at the statue.

"My great grandfather," he sighed. "He died in a skirmish with Noxus."

Nothing was said for a long while after that. And the lack of romance killed Luxanna's blush. But after staring much longer at the statue, Fiora turned her gaze to Garen. Her chin fell lower than usual, and her posture sank to something less than godliness. When her eyes met his, she was still looking down her nose, but not as much as before. And in the accent of nobles she remarked,

"I hear _you_ are a soldier. What is _that_ like?"

* * *

><p>"Go."<p>

Garen and one other commando rushed from their bush around the left flank of a Noxian camp. The other two men, Bravo team, moved straight into the camp with blades drawn, quieting between the black cloth constructs of the enemy. The Howling Marshes were a forgiving place for a small insertion team. Sound didn't carry well through reeds and brush, and the dense grass hid what little the morning sun revealed. And none of them were wearing gold. While the Dauntless Vanguard had the task of Shock Troopers, the Demacian Commandos operated in groups of four, and only in secret. The unit's armor was lighter, but far more advanced. Instead of steel, each man wore regenerating ceramic plates with a camouflage enchantment. To any observer, Garen and his men were amorphous green tanks. It was better than shining gold tanks.

Garen knew when he had reached the Noxian command tent. It was not marked, but it was larger and better guarded than the others. Garen and his buddy, Calhoun, were now behind it. Two Noxians, Crimson Blades, were at its front. No word or signal had to be passed between Garen or his partner. They both knew on instinct how to divvy up the targets, and when to strike. Both men stepped forward quieter than the bog-chirpers about them.

Garen and Calhoun had trained together for the last five weeks, starting just after Kalamanda. Before that, they had trained together for a year in the Demacian Selection Camp. And before that, they had spent six years together at the Junior Military Academy. The rest of their brothers had died in Kalamanda, or were in Bravo Team. Thom Garvin and Han Jerral had opted to be Commandos, favoring clandestine danger over glory behind the Vanguard's shields. Garen's choice had been made by his mother. It was only now, with the Dauntless Vanguard eliminated, that he had managed a transfer to the Commandos.

As he and Calhoun snuck up on the unsuspecting Noxians, he understood the draw to shadows. This was not the raging bloodlust of swinging maces against steel. This was a constant rush of fear. They had neither the equipment, nor manpower to fight out of any mess. Garen was a dagger's thickness away from death here. As he slipped around the tent, out of view of the guards, he saw that Calhoun had been just as successful. They leaped up and slit silent throats in unison. Garen knew he was right, that the silent service of the commandos was the best, if only for its terror: There is no stronger drug.

Garen and Calhoun sheathed daggers and drew swords. No one in the camp had spotted them yet; the bodies didn't have to be moved. But the command tent had to be searched. Their hands extended together for either side of the entrance flap. When they rushed in and turned to opposite ends, their backs graced just close enough to feel the other's motions. And at no point did they have to communicate. These men knew each other as well as themselves. What Garen felt at his back was security.

The tent was unoccupied. Garen and Calhoun both turned and laid hands on a dead guard each, sliding them into cover.

"Check for maps and intel," Garen didn't have to say.

"Find a bag," Calhoun didn't respond.

By the time Garen had snatched one and opened it, his buddy was pouring parchments in. Unlike the chaos of battle, when every man's heart was part of a million that met a continuous thrum, Garen felt the quiet of sleeping enemys, and the cadence that he shared with Calhoun.

Garen tied the bag to his belt and stood to leave. But Calhoun pointed above them. The roof of the tent was a hole with a second cloth over it. This functioned as a roof while still allowing ventilation for candle smoke. Someone had exploited the extra space to hide parchment. Calhoun took a knee and cupped his hands to boost Garen up to grab it. There was a mass of letters hidden there, which he tucked into the bag as he stepped back down to the ground with his buddy.

Intelligence was only tertiary to the mission, and speed was essential. They shared a glance, the only countdown they needed, and slid from the tent in cadence. They still hadn't been spotted, because there was no one to catch them. This part of the camp was deserted. There was Noxian motion ahead of them, though. Voices and mirth carried through the dense reeds to them. This was not a trap. This was their exact target.

"They're making a show of it," Garen didn't need to say.

Calhoun nodded and the two men rushed towards the brush nearest the sound, passing several quartering tents on the way.

From the bushes, their vision pierced to a clearing that had taken the Noxians' attention. Most of the Noxian company was here, either guarding or attending a horrific event. An executioner's ax sounded against Demacian flesh and the wood below it. Garen and Calhoun shared panic, thinking they had come too late. But the latest soldier to fall was just one of many in a line in the center of the clearing, encircled by Noxian tents.

This was what warranted the presence of the Commandos. Jarvan's battalion in the Howling Marshes had suffered ambush and defeat. The prisoners were lined up single file with their hands tied and their heads bagged. Of the One-thousand men that they had set out with, Garen estimated only two hundred were standing here. The Noxians appeared at a full company's strength. Jarvan's men had been slaughtered even before the executions began.

It didn't matter. The battalion was expendable. Jarvan was not.

"Damn you, Swain! This is no way to treat prisoners of war!"

Garen and Calhoun spotted their prince in front of the executioner's line, where he was restrained by two Crimson Blades men. Every man who was to be executed first had his bag removed, so Jarvan could stare into his eyes. Swain, a Noxian captain who walked with a cane and a crow, was standing by the block, opposite the executioner, with his back to Garen and Calhoun. His head turned, following the path of one that rolled to Jarvan's feet.

"You're right." His voice was like a murder of crows chewing gravel. "No decent human would order this on another."

The next Demacian was forced forward from the line. A guard removed his hood and ensured that he made eye contact with his fatal commander before kicking the back of his knees.

"I'll take his place!" Jarvan shouted. "Damn you, I'll take their place!"

Thump. Roll. Swain grinned and another prisoner was pushed forward.

Garen and Calhoun only watched, unable to intervene until Bravo team had finished their task.

"Don't worry," Swain squawked. A fourth head rolled past him to Jarvan's feet.

"Stop this, you bastard! I'll take their place!"

"We'll kill you last."

Swain ignored Jarvan's pleading for another two heads, watching as the men blamed Jarvan silently and as their blood splashed against his armor. Jarvan had been forced to wear it for Swain's occasion. The entire thing was a show made by Swain, seemingly to satisfy his bewildering amusement. He chuckled at the latest head to roll.

"You're mad!" Jarvan spat.

Garen and Calhoun would have agreed, but when Swain rounded on the Prince with a correction, it was he who had the point.

"I am Livid!" he crowed. Swain's hand stopped the executioner as the next man's bag was removed. Swain turned to the soldier, a fifteen year old with a medal that had been left on his tunic by his captors. Swain fondled it carelessly.

"What's this for?"

The kid fidgeted uncomfortably, and tried to avoid Jarvan's eyes.

"For gallantry in action, sir," he responded.

"You look too young to have fought at Mogron or DelGarde," Swain chided. As he continued, he turned to the men assembled around him, a full company of Noxian soldiers, and amplified his voice for all to hear.

"_Where_ and _Who_ did you fight with gallantry?"

He turned back to the prisoner with a derisive snarl. "And speak up."

"Kalamanda, sir," the boy shivered.

At a signal from Swain, the nearest Crimson Blade kicked the boys knees down. The executioner raised his ax.

"You know, Jarvan: we haven't had executions in Noxus for almost a hundred years," Swain mused.

"You bastard! I'll take his- "

Thump. Roll.

Swain eyed him unhappily. "You will take the place of the families you murdered."

Swain did not track the next rolling head. He watched as Jarvan did, and waited for- savored- the understanding that dawned in his eyes.

"These men only obeyed orders," Jarvan defended.

"Yours." Here Swain's grin grew manic. "They are _your_ men, following _your_ orders. A king is a proprietor of his estate."

Thump. Roll.

"Then let me take their place, damnit!"

"No! When a king fails, it is not the king that suffers the consequences! You will watch your men die under your command, and _then_ you will be punished for your crimes!"

Jarvan turned away from the sight, and again Swain's hand stopped the procession. He grabbed Jarvan by the neck and forced his gaze up to the man before him.

"You will watch!" Swain screamed.

Garen and Calhoun felt the relief of rumbling wards on their belts. That was Bravo Team's signal- Garvin and Jerral had finished planting their charges, and would soon be done readying a recall beacon. The charges would destroy nothing of value, but the metal pellets wrapped around them would kill a lot of unlucky bastards.

Garen and Calhoun scooted right, flanking around Swain to Jarvan's back. The brush there extended closer to the prince than any other concealment, and both men had spotted it together. They would have to strike soon. The more prisoners Noxus had to handle, the less manpower they could spare for defense.

The wards rumbled again. The beacon was ready to be activated as soon as they were ready to leave. Garen and Calhoun traded glances, seeking and finding the certainty that both men were ready to strike. Calhoun nodded, and Garen squeezed his ward back. A brief delay left another prisoner dead, and then: Havoc.

Rune Terra shifted and crunched under them as the camp tents folded and ignited. Metal pellets tore through the reeds , scattering dirt and flesh. Few men fell dead, but all of Noxus had become a turtle.

"Ambush!"

"Form and return fire!"

Swain shouted the order as he grabbed Jarvan and threw him onto the block.

"Kill him now, Urgot!"

He turned from the procession, taking command of the nearest rifle squadron and leading them at the source of the pellets.

Garen and Calhoun burst from the bushes, their green armor turning black and red amongst the Noxian decorations, and charged for Jarvan as the headsmen hefted his ax. A second round of detonations sounded, repeating the volley and felling more Noxians dead and into cover.

The distance to the chopping block was closing too slowly. The executioner was wasting no time. His ax raised, and Garen saw that he had no time left to run. He raised his sword in a mighty leap, feeling the ground spring away behind him, and flew like the fist of a god. He could sense Calhoun behind him, slashing at the men holding Jarvan down. He could feel pellets crashing into steel and mud around him. And when his blade lowered ahead of the executioners, he felt a torrential gush of blood. His blade cracked through the man's skull, bursting his head like a overripe crownberry and tearing through the rest of his body like straw. He crashed to the ground with his fallen foe and felt the earth below strike his head wrong.

His senses refocused when Jarvan and Calhoun pulled him to his feet, their bonds cut and weapons ready. Jarvan was in front of him, eyes shocked, shaking Garen's shoulders and trying to turn him towards the brush.

"Move!"

But Garen didn't see him. Garen saw past him, over his shoulder, where a young Noxian woman was peeking out of a tent on the clearing's edge. Her piercing, emerald eyes met his, and Garen realized that she would see through the enchantment of his armor. She would look past the vaguely Noxian colors and right into a face she couldn't forget.

Garen turned and ran, pushing Jarvan ahead of him. A throwing dagger ricocheted from his armor as he moved. Katarina was already after them. The brush enveloped them quickly, and Calhoun led the group towards their extraction point, squeezing his ward as he moved. Garen could hear the foot falls of Katarina behind them. Ahead of him was a blue beam reaching to the sky.

They pushed through a final bout of brush, into a tiny clearing where Thom Garvin and Han Jerral were waiting in a crouch. Beside them was a pole erected by tripod. The blue beam to the sky was emanating from it. Jerral had his sword drawn and ready, but Garvin, the demolitions expert, was holding a detonator.

"They're on us," Garen shouted.

Garvin lit up the marsh with his thumb, and Katarina's footsteps disappeared under a torrent of hellish booms. Garen stopped, his eyes on the brush, with the sudden realization that she was probably dead. He had been cheated out of a glorious battle, and a worthy opponent had been rended by a cheap trick.

"Garen!"

He turned back to the group. Everyone but him had a hand on the pole . The blue beam to the sky was glowing brighter, and the soft dirt under them hummed with arcane power. The recall beacon was now active. Garen added his hand as Blue rings of mist formed around them. The humming intensified beneath them, and a whirring chirp in the air sounded. The rings gathered tight. Garen felt the hairs on his head standing under a static charge. They were almost home.

A shrieking, flying Katarina burst from the grass, her bloodied face soured by rage. She had time to throw a single knife. The cadence that Garen felt with Calhoun stopped. Where two hearts had beat as one, none sounded. Calhoun's grip on the beacon failed. He fell to his knees at Garen's side, and from there face-down into the mud with blood spreading around him. That was the last that Garen saw of his friend, or the Howling Marshes of Noxus.

* * *

><p>Luxana, Fiora, and Garen had found seats under the shade of a Gazebo in the Crownguard gardens. It was here that Garen finished his story, while Fiora and Luxanna treated themselves to the mid-afternoon luncheon that the servants had brought. Fiora had listened patiently and with an unchanging face, speaking only once, when she had to be certain that Urgot was fully split in half. Luxanna had gasped at every new turn.<p>

"You remember it so well," she whispered at his side.

Garen nodded to his sister. "That was all today." He sipped from a teacup that felt ridiculously small in his hands, but maintained his manners under the watchful eye of Fiora and her flawless etiquette. The servants had brought her a periodical, apparently by her father's request from inside the house. She had yet to touch it, but now scooted it toward Garen.

"Is it true?"

She did not explain, and Garen wondered for a moment if she meant his story. His friend was certainly dead. Jarvan had certainly been rescued. Fifth Battalion had been eradicated by Noxus.

"What do you mean?" he tried not to growl.

Fiora's face finally broke from its one expression- confidence. She smiled, smug and seductive. And in that accent, of nobility and superiority, she whispered.

"Did you _fuck _her?"

Luxanna gasped.

Garen sighed.


	18. Bilgewater Buddies

**I figured it's late enough I should just post instead of making it full length.**

The Marshes Howled. They shook. Katarina could only grip mud and slipping reeds as Rune Terra mourned spilled blood. A roar like the speeding freights of Zaun rumbled through the ground and rippled through the grass. Running and hiding were her first impulses, but not an option. The explosion of the Demacian Arcano-siesmic charges had trampled her balance. All that remained was her hearing and that horrible roar. Katarina gripped at the body of the fallen commando for support while she struggled to get her footing in the slick mud.

She let his blood pool and tag onto her black, leather armor. She let it sliver around her form like a hug from it's owner.

_There, there; nothing personal._

But the reassurances were nothing. Rune Terra's bellowing throat ravaged on the reeds that hid the marsh. Katarina breathed, trying to calm her nerves.

_It's just a natural phen- phan- phenomenenen- it's just nature,_ she assured herself.

Katarina focused on her breathing.

She had heard the stories of the howling. She had heard about monsters that swallowed villages whole or kidnapped their children, or both. She paid little heed to a Bilgewater pub's interpretation of foreign events, but _something_ was howling all the way to the gods.

She couldn't remember the way back to camp, and she couldn't run there if she did. She sat and

clutched her body, feeling Rune Terra shift below her. This dead body, this cold, hard thing, was a rock in an ocean. All around her, everything but the body jiggled in the watery mud on the ground or swayed in the reeds. The loose earth was bringing water up from the soil, turning mud to mineral water. Katarina panicked when she realized the ground was giving way for her. The mud itself was probably the "monster with a maw that could swallow the serpentine."

She wasn't going to be its meal. The Commando's body had a higher surface area than hers, so she rolled on board and tried not to sway as his weight shifted downwards. This was out of a nightmare. Katarina could only watch in horror as the world readied her grave. She could only gaze into the swaying reeds around her and clutch her stomach without a frame of reference. The entire world seemed to sway on its side.

But a constant emerged for her hope. A woman's face extended from the reeds to stare her down with blazing, purple eyes, like morning rays piercing a dream. A finger pressed against the pale lips of the face, and the woman in the horror shushed the howl. And her smile calmed the tide of reeds. And her footsteps as she turned and ran hardened the ground. In less than an instant, it was over. The violent churning of Rune Terra had settled to a cradle rocking. Katarina breathed.

She didn't want to speak and reawaken that howl. She didn't know if the hush was for the marshes or her, or both. At the moment, she didn't understand reality. Marshes shouldn't be able to howl, and people shouldn't be able to silence them if they do.

Another set of footsteps sent Katarina to her own feet. Her Captain, Swain, burst from the bushes cane first. He stared. She stared. He spoke.

"Sleeping on the job?"

Katarina's head jerked up from a wooden desk. Before her in the cabin was Swain, but her eyes and hand darted away from him to an ink pot that fell and rolled to one side. A paper slid after it, no longer pinned by her head. Katarina grabbed that with her other hand.

"We've docked," Swain grumbled. His raven jabbered the words with him. Katarina struggled to address the man's eyes exclusively. The waking world slammed back to her in that instant.

She was on board the NSS Night Rider. They'd just docked in Bilgewater. The Howling Marshes lay a week behind her. She'd escaped Zaun's shipyards and her father, but somehow her secretarial duties stuck. She licked a parched mouth ready and reported to Swain, her current superior.

"I checked all of your files, sir. The documents are missing. There are no unopened letters to you and there's nothing sealed with a black rose." She righted the ink pot in a secure position and paused on the parchment she had rescued. It was an unopened letter addressed to Swain and sealed with a black rose. He pulled it from her hand gently, with a bird's grin.

"I-I- I don't know where that came from," Katarina stammered.

Swain used a dagger from his belt to open the letter. His eyes stayed on Katarina until he was ready to read. She sat at the desk- his- while the boat rocked back, slowly, like a cradle.

Night Rider was probably the gem of the harbor at the moment. Katarina never recalled seeing a vessel as large on her last visit to the island-state of Bilgewater. Her duty here was to hire privateers for the Ionia campaign. Hopefully any mercenary that wanted to join the winning team would be swayed by the tide of this ship. Katarina shifted her weight in Swain's chair. His eyes darted up from the letter, remembering her presence suddenly.

"I do," he murmured. His bird maintained a respectful silence, even while he continued.

"Do you know who Miss Fortune is?"

Swain's eyes and knowledge had been keened by whatever he'd read. Katarina nodded.

"Yes, sir. We- we um- I met her last time I was here."

She eyed the letter, but Swain shook his head and folded it back into its envelope.

"She's waiting for you in a pub called the Shady Lady. She'll be doing the recruiting for you. We're paying her enough that you can trust her." He tucked the envelope into his uniform. Katarina noticed a non-regulation looseness around the cuffs and waist- and shoulder. She knew better than to comment though. Strength is power is authority, and Swain was his followers' definition of strength.

"Understood?" Swain jabbered.

"Understood," she parroted with an eye to the raven.

"Well? Need another nap?"

"Sir?" She blinked at him. "No. Sorry, sir. I'm ready to go."

She traded Swain's chair for his place and saluted. He nodded and patted his shoulder with his fist, then waived her away.

"Oh," he added as an afterthought.

Katarina stopped at the cabin's door while Swain continued.

"That stunt you pulled with the commandos in the marhses." Swain's head shook. "You are not a combat soldier right now, Katarina. You are a diplomat and a secretary. Your job is to gather signatures and write checks. If you see any Demacians here, you let them go. Are we clear?"

Katarina waited longer than Swain cared, but answered before he could repeat himself.

"Understood."

The Night Rider's deck was near empty. It had no cargo to exchange, and little maintenance to perform at the moment. What few hands on duty were scrubbing the deck or patrolling. Most of the men had been ordered ashore to drink and brag about the wonders of a Noxian military pension. The one commotion left was a swearing seaman and his prey. A white fox with nine-tails and a melon dashed out of the cargo hold and lunged from the boat's railing into the sunset and freedom. It soared a pitifully short distance, due to the melon, before plunging into the harbor's water below. Katarina leaned over the deck with the seaman to watch as the fox surfaced. It had to drop its treat.

"Gods-damned vermin was packed in with some of the fruits," the sailor grumbled. "Stowaway's been eating out stores the whole trip."

Katarina's ankle itched. She chuckled at the all-around frustration, catching the seaman's alarm. He straightened out and saluted when he realized who she was.

"Sorry, mam! I thought you- oh please don't tell the captain I swore in front of you- the ship captain, I mean- or Swain- anyone, actually-"

Katarina interrupted him with a wave and a salute. Her uniform, heavy black cloth with red cords, was intimidating enough.

She stepped out on to the gangplank and found her legs suddenly wobbling on solid ground. She'd grown too accustomed to the boat, or maybe she was nervous. Katarina could never tell how she felt during the transition between land and sea. She knew that she didn't like swain telling her who to trust, especially when his sources delivered mail to him in such an untrustworthy manner. Katarina knew she didn't like being snuck up on too. She knew she didn't like black birds or white foxes or green sailors.

Her feet hit the dock and carried her down familiar routes into the city. Bilgewater was a city-state on an ugly, gaseous island, and was embargoed by every nation at all times. The only exception to the ugly was at night, when the gasses streaming from under the ocean's crust would ignite into pillars of blue flame that could be seen from the horizon. The only exception to the embargoes was when someone needed something. Katarina was having trouble with Swain's orders just a few steps onto shore.

Every military and nation on Rune Terra was represented here, and in far greater strength than she had remembered. She passed under a Demacian banner, an embassy the size of an Inn, with nothing more than casual glances from professional looking men. One even turned his back to her without worry. She saw a Noxian embassy across the street. There was a Demacian out front chatting up some friends in black and red uniforms. They noted her, and the name "Garen Crownguard" was mumbled to a chorus of chuckles. She kept walking. She had somewhere to be.

The Shady Lady was a place of ill repute, and Katarina knew its location by heart. She could find it blindfolded and drunk faster than most local girls- a fun game. She was plenty sober now, though. The bright blue sign on the door was still there. It remained the one piece of the establishment not riddled, rotted, or roasted. It had weathered the storms to read thus: "Ladies, kindly do your soliciting discretely. -The Proprietor."

The establishment had other rules, but they weren't as fun to break. Katarina pushed the door open and stepped into a rabble of cheer. This was not the loudest or most uncouth pub on Blue Flame Island- it may have been the calmest, actually- but it was the sultriest. Strong port and sober bouncers made this a woman's land. Katarina slipped past tables of lovers and passion into the center of the pub, where a wraparound bar was serving spiced and sugared drinks.

Sarah "Miss" Fortune, or a redhead with large breasts and the same swagger, was on the opposite end of the bar. Her lips were waving at a shadowy stranger there, whispering secrets into a face that was too shadowy for pleasure, and too casual for business. Katarina adjusted her course, waving away the bartender as his eyebrows queried her way. She stopped though, and looked again at his face. The bartender was Zimmel. His head shook discretely and he turned away for another patron. Katarina continued on, catching the meaning, and reached Sarah's side in time to hear what she was whispering to the shadowed man. She was leaning against the bar and forward, for cleavage's sake.

"Vous avez yeux dangereuses," she cooed. "J'aime que les."

Katarina eyed the stranger over Sarah's shoulder and nodded for him to back off. His eyes followed Katarina, but he grinned and whispered back to Sarah, "Fortune sourit aux audacieux."

Sarah Fortune followed his eyes to Katarina's. She grinned, enlivened by her friend's presence, and only paused the reunion to drop a sack of coins in the stranger's lap.

"Pour la livraison," she nodded over her shoulder. The man backed into the pub's shadows and away, while Miss Fortune threw her arms wide for a hug.

"Zimmel! You're not gonna' believe who's here! A round of drinks on Noxus; Make it rain for me!"

A chorus of lady-cheers rang out across the tavern while they embraced. Katarina was the first to release, and straightened her uniform.

"How have you been, Sarah?"

Fortune's mischievous grin and wink said "well."

"If everything goes to plan, I'll have my own ship tomorrow," she added.

Sarah took another sip from her drink, but her eyes shot across the bar and lit up.

"Oh. Here he his. Did you really have to wear that? Come on." She slapped Katarina's stomach as she passed- the uniform was for business, not pleasure. Katarina turned to follow Sarah's strut around the bar. Her arms had flung wide to welcome the newcomer to the pub. She was expecting Katarina to follow her like Lady Luck, without explanation. Katarina suppressed a happy grin while she took stock of the man that had entered.

His suit was Zaunite, a three-piece with a red vest and black dress pants. A formal, red tie added to the casual-business-pleasure look that only men's clothing could hold, but his duster betrayed a cloak and dagger vibe. He'd definitely picked it up in Bilgewater, along with the empty holster hanging loose under it. The clothing was irrelevant. This man could wear anything and his face would still reveal the truth. Sarah Fortune's friend had lived through- had lead- a tough life. This man had true grit. He grinned through a cigar- Marcus' favorite brand- and held his hands wide to accept Sarah Fortune's welcome.

"Hey there Darlin'. They told me this was a bad place- didn't realize it was your kinda' bad," he quipped. Sarah socked him in the chest while her eyes did something salacious to the rest of his body. He chuckled to himself and guided her to a nearby booth with an inappropriate pat to the rear. Katarina followed loosely, trying to avoid the event horizon of Sarah's perpetual, primal revel. But when Sarah and her friend took a booth, Fortune beckoned, and Katarina had to make a choice.

"Come on. In or out?"

Sarah never really _asked_ questions; she offered temptations.

Katarina straightened her uniform.

"We're... um... on business?"

She realized her mistake before Sarah answered.

"Of course! This is purely business. Take a seat, Kitty."

Sarah wore the same excitement as her male compatriot while they watched Katarina take a place on the loveseat. The bench wrapped around a round table, and had low walls for privacy on either side. Katarina took the bend opposite Sarah, and glared over the man's chest at her friend. This was so typical of Sarah Fortune; Turn one business opportunity into two and some pleasure.

Katarina's brooding was interrupted by Sarah's male friend.

"When'd you make friends with a stiff, Fortune?"

He had to talk around his Cigar. One arm was occupied over Sarah's shoulder, and the other was busy being rejected by a polite wave from Katarina.

Sarah frowned at Katarina's professionalism, but quickly turned it to a pout aimed at her guest.

"She doesn't perform on demand, Malcolm. And neither do I. Buy us some drinks."

She smiled as Malcolm groaned and reached for a light money pouch.

"You could drain the royal coffers, Missy."

"Gotta pay to play," she retorted. "Any idea when your friend is showing up?"

Malcolm snorted. "He's not a friend. You darlin's just keep lookin' pretty and I'll do the hustlin'."

He waved the money pouch at the bar and signaled for two drinks. Zimmel didn't need to be told what the girls wanted.

Sarah smiled and prodded, "And my ship?"

Malcolm strained, "and I'll get you yer' damn discount when we're done. Look, here is is."

Katarina sat up, leaning out of the conversation to appear professional, and turned to the door. Another gentleman had entered, this one in a tophat and with considerably more girth and less stature. He was defined by his suit, and bore no scars or wrinkles to disagree with leisurely drab. But about his look was an appearance of cunning. He had not been born poor, but he had not lost anything he was born with. This man managed himself and his surroundings with intent, and took great care not stepping on any toes as he passed through the pub.

He tipped his hat to Katarina and Sarah as he approached the table. They nodded in return, but had already lost his interest. The portly Zaunite Fortune's friend and asked,

"Malcolm Graves?"

Graves welcomed his guest with a smile and a nod.

"Dr. Aregor Priggs. Glad to see we both made the journey. Drink?" Malcolm gestured past the Zaunite man, to the bar.

Aregor Priggs declined politely and took a seat beside Sarah fortune, across from Katarina.

"It's unfortunate," he began, "that we could not meet in Noxus, as originally intended."

Malcolm Graves nodded his agreement. "The trade laws are a bit... restrictive. You wouldn't believe the loopholes a man has to exploit to do business there. I'm glad we could find some mutual ground, though. And, quite frankly, I wouldn't mind sorting through the business as quickly as possible. There's plenty of pleasure to be had afterwards."

He nodded over Aregor Prigg's shoulder, at a group of already drunk women. but the only thing stirring in the Zaunite's pants was his wallet.

"Down to business, then. Wonderful. What do you know about our escrow man?"

Malcolm shrugged, "I trust him. He's got good word backing him in Noxus. But he's closer to you. What's the word in Zaun?"

Aregor Priggs seemed to shiver uncomfortably when he answered.

"I have found no mention of a 'Mr. Fate' in any of my circles. But, again, none of my circles have ever smuggled to your country before."

Graves shrugged. "They didn't have to. The High command is turning out to be more trouble than it's worth. Almost makes me wish for a king again."

Katarina held her tongue and smiled seductively. Every day she felt less like a killer and more like her ill sister.

Priggs nodded. "Will you be transferring the money then?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Already did, right before I left. Can't wait for money to make itself. Just waiting on you now."

"And you're sure about the RoI?" Priggs' eye of caution was piercing now.

From what Katarina could infer, it was Graves himself that was untrustworthy. What started as a job for Noxus had become a job for Sarah and now a job for Sarah's friend Graves. Funny how quickly government work becomes organized crime.

"I'm not sure about anything," Graves answered. "Don't need to be. I'm not exactly all-in over a couple million, now am I?"

The two shared a nervous chuckle over the proletariat, and again, Katarina found herself biting her tongue. She felt obligated to act, but conflicted by Swain's orders. She wasn't a soldier anymore- just a diplomat. Sign checks and stay out of trouble. Malcolm Graves continued with a gesture towards the two ladies beside him.

"We're men of wealth. We have it because we know how to spend it. We can judge the quality of a person's time, and the value of ours. And we can tell who to pay what, and why. I see no flaw in Mr. Fate's character, and we've heard nothing but good tales of business about him."

Aregor nodded his agreement, then pointed at Katarina and her Noxian uniform. "From the embassy? I assume she's alright?"

Malcolm answered for her, "Yeah. Old friend of mine."

Aregor nodded. "Well I don't want to stand in the way of business- or pleasure- and I think we understand each other. I assume there's a secure ward station on the island?"

Malcolm nodded. "The Noxian embassy, ironically enough."

"Excellent. I will send a message to my lieutenants. The money should be transferred within a week."

Aregor Priggs stood and tipped his hat. And as he parted said, "Our fortunes rise and fall together."

All eyes watched him leave, and all mouths exhaled when the door closed behind him. Katarina turned back to Sarah with a scornful look. She retorted before Katarina could complain.

"What? You needed my help, and I needed yours."

Katarina snarled,"To do what? Watch a crime be committed?"

"Oh please. You're here to hire pirates."

"Con is short for confidence," Graves interjected. "You were here to make me look good. And for that, Sarah-" Graves patted her inappropriately again, signaling for her to move so he could leave- "I'll give you a good word with Three-Cuts."

Katarina's ears perked up at that. "Three-Cuts?"

Her eyes returned to Sarah while Graves exited the pub.

"Three-Cuts is retiring? That's the boat you're getting?" She repeated.

Sarah Fortune smiled.

"A mutual friend needs to make a ship disappear, so I hooked up Three-Cuts. In return, he's selling me his old ship."

Katarina mused over that. "He wont just trade them?"

"He didn't want to give me his ship at all. Afraid I'll sink it."

"Then why sell it to you?"

"Because I'm _paying_ for it." Sarah explained it as if to a child.

Katarina nodded. "Right. Pirate. So those guys from Zaun-"

"-Malcolm wanted my help with a con. Three-Cuts owes him a favor. I gave him a favor so he can get me a discount from Three-Cuts. Now I just need the money. If only there was a government with a large war chest that needed a mercenary consultant."

Fortune had smiled her way. Katarina grinned back.

"You... if you-you could be the youngest ship captain I've ever-"

"In the whole conqueror's Sea," Sarah grinned. "Wanna' be my first mate?"

Katarina laughed a little too hopefully as images of the high seas and treasure beckoned. "You can't be serious," she whispered.

"I'm not. Ready to work?"


	19. Diplomacy

Garen sighed and adjusted his decorative sash. Formal attire offered him no protection from the blades of Noxus, and Noxus put blades on everything. He backed away from a satin wall that menaced with spikes of obsidian, and turned to the cheerful face of Ambassador Laurent.

"My father is the reason I joined," Garen confessed.

Laurent nodded. "Mine, too."

Laurent had worn a knowing smile since the day Garen met his daughter. He showed it now while Garen continued.

"He pulled me up to the family balcony and showed me the city from above. And he said, 'All these chums will stay in Demacia's walls for their whole lives. You'll see all of Valoran. Maybe the stars too.' He really wasn't kidding. I mean... I never thought I'd end up _here_."

Garen chuckled, covering his nerves.

Laurent's smile slighted.

"What did you want to be before this?"

He had never asked Garen a personal question, but his voice carried like a friend's more than a commander's.

Garen nodded sideways, embarrassed.

"It's, uh... that was a long time ago."

He crossed his arms and tried to keep his mouth closed. Laurent coaxed him onward with a confession of his own.

"I wanted to be a farmer," he tempted. "Honest work for an honest wage. None of this crap about politics and war."

His head shook, and now it was Garen who pursued, interested. He shifted his weight to the wall, to lean on it, but backed away again when he remembered the sharp objects there. Noxus kept personnel on their toes.

"And your dad talked you into it?"

Garen saw Laurent's reaction and realized he'd touched a nerve. The General-Ambassador's face turned distant and hollow. His smile turned pensive, and he answered: "Those who hammer their weapons into plows will plow for those who do not."

He sighed, releasing the moment, and returned to his smile.

"But that was a long time ago," he finished.

Garen nodded, and as the moments passed he realized that he should answer the general's question.

"I wanted to be a painter," he confessed.

Laurent didn't answer. His attention was focused down a hallway connected to their room. The blurry shape of a Noxian uniform was visible through a frosted glass door. As the shape drew closer, the glass slid aside on Zaunite mechanisms, and a Noxian lieutenant entered the room.

The dignitary arrived embarrassed and just breaking a sweat. Garen noted as the man straightened his uniform and ran a black handkerchief over his hand. Garen had heard the propaganda about Noxus' favorite pastimes, but when he saw a splotch of blood wipe away under that cloth, he wished he hadn't.

The lieutenant stopped short of Laurent with a less-than-formal salute, and a nod to Garen. Laurent spoke first.

"Surprised to see me?"

He smiled while the Noxian nodded. The lieutenant answered in a monotone just below professionalism.

"On behalf of Noxus and the High Command, I apologize for this inconvenience. An emergency has come up, and..."

He stopped for a breath and a second glance at Garen.

"And the ambassador is currently occupied."

He caught a few more breaths.

"Fortunately," another glance to Garen, "there is another diplomat on the island. A summons was issued. Now, if I can ask you to wait just a moment longer-"

Laurent held up a hand to stop the lieutenant.

"I came here to see your Senior Ambassador, and I will not settle for less. Now we just got done speaking to another lieutenant who said he would get the ambassador for us."

His face turned sour when the lieutenant gestured to a row of chairs in the embassy's lobby.

"Sir- I apologize, again, on behalf of Noxus. But an emergency has come up and our Senior Ambassador is currently occupied. I was just in his office. Trust me, he's busy. Now-"

The Lieutenant cut himself off.

"Other Lieutenant?"

Laurent's expression burst into words.

"Yes! Another lieutenant!"

"Are you sure?"

"Would I lie?"

The Noxian pondered that, an expression close to worry on his face.  
>"If you'll excuse me for a moment," he mumbled. The lieutenant bowed, returned through the frosted glass doors, and broke into a sprint.<p>

Garen and Laurent were left waiting again in a room that menaced with knives.

Ambassador Laurent feigned displeasure and turned away. He was taking in the dimensions of the lobby. The floor was snowflake obsidian, black with white blossoms in it. The roof was a rounded mirror, quicksilver and glass. Stone golems marked the walls with torches of black and red flame. Each had a Zaunite logo on its chest.

Hallways branched out in every direction from here, each sealed by the frosted glass of Zaun's miraculous sliding doors. And on the walls between halls were recruitment posters for the Noxian Auxiliary Navy.

Laurent was facing the exit, a double set of sliding glass, and very seriously giving the impression that he would leave. The Noxian Lieutenant returned then from his hallway. He was panting, and the edges of his mouth would twitch every few seconds.

"Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. The lieutenant you spoke to earlier was mistaken. Our ambassador is occupied. However, there is _another_ _diplomat_ that can handle mercenary payroll inspections. _And she is on her way here_."

He growled the last sentence.

Laurent tossed am upset hand to the air.

"Fine." He cast a scornful look across Noxus' incredible wealth, and added, "I suppose I can handle speaking to her."

Garen had resisted speaking thus far. Laurent had told him that there would be eyes and ears all around them. His only job was to sneak a sword inside, just in case. But now his interest had been caught. He turned to the Noxian lieutenant.

"The diplomat. You said... _She_?" Garen whispered.

Laurent's head tilted away from the exit with some surprise. He hadn't caught that detail, and he hadn't expected that Garen would out-observe him.

The Noxian lieutenant nodded and licked his lips.

"The only other diplomat in Bilgewater right now... is Katarina Du Couteau."

The entrance slid open, admitting a midnight breeze from the Guardian's Sea. It had acquired the aroma of port in port, and pushed two women into the room for good measure.

Sarah Fortune hiccuped in surprise when her eyes met Garen. Katarina stopped in the doorway and swayed on her feet. In the human silence, a metallic voice spoke from the ceiling.

"The Noxian embassy welcomes... KATARINA-DU-COUTEAU."

Garen and Laurent had been greeted by the same Zaunite contraption when they entered earlier. Katarina wore the same shock they had. She was swaying like the ships over her shoulder in the harbor. Her eyes were seeking the greeting voice, but she kept Garen in her field of view.

Sarah hiccuped again.

Laurent glared.

"You know why we're here. Show me the ledger."

His impatience grew with Sarah's hiccups. Katarina, not feeling or looking secure, went on the offensive and tried to ignore Garen's presence.

"Laurent, right? Last month it was a surprise attack using darkness, and today it's a surprise inspection using diplomacy."

She smiled, trying to be serious, but falling quickly to the enjoyment of Sarah's hiccups.

Laurent nodded respectfully.

"Article III, section 7, of the Rune War Concordant guarantees mutual surprise inspections between our nations-"

"I've read it," she spat. "But I'm confused. When are you at peace, and when are you at war? Should I shake your hand or your fist?"

She nodded at Laurent's decorations: The Silver Sash bearing the Mark of Destruction.

Laurent gestured at the nearest recruitment poster.

"Should I call you 'Citizen-Soldier' or 'Assassin-Diplomat?'"

Sarah Hiccuped, and was so impressed by the wit of the sober that she giggled.

Katarina jabbed at her with an elbow, but missed by an incredible feat of clumsiness.

Laurent scowled. "Are you two drunk?"

Katarina's face turned very serious, and continued to sway.

"Of course not," she slurred. "That would be upronfess..."

She paused, her face frozen in a serious glare. But she couldn't figure out the word.

"No," she finally said.

Sarah was biting her tongue to not laugh, but obviously was beet red. The Noxian Lieutenant stepped in to save his nation's honor.

"The mercenary ledger is in the recruitment office, mam," he hissed.

Sarah fortune gave the lieutenant an odd look while Katarina followed the jerk of his head towards another hallway. She pointed that way.

"This way," she mumbled at Laurent's back.

He had already begun walking. Garen gestured for the women to walk ahead of him.

Sarah fell in line and giggled whispering, "Oh he _is _cute," just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Katarina jabbed at her again- missing- while they fell in line. Garen and Laurent did their best to remain professional and quiet while the frosted glass doors slid open for them, and the trip down the hallway passed uneventfully. Laurent and the Lieutenant lead the way through darkened offices while Katarina felt Garen's presence at her back. She was only discretely armed, and had to resist looking back at him with every fiber of her being. She couldn't resist the urge to wonder, though: _Does he think __I'm beautiful right now?_

She settled on the most reasonable answer- that she was drunk- and they reached the office door. The Lieutenant unlocked it and stepped aside for Laurent. Laurent stepped aside and for Sarah. Sarah stepped aside for Katarina. Katarina swayed into the doorway, missing, and bumping her face on the wall as a result. She swayed on her heels for a moment and got it right on the second try.

The office was large enough for three people, so Sarah and the Lieutenant waited in the hallway. Katarina was left to fumble through cabinets in search of the book she and Sarah had been carting from pub to pub all week. Sarah had been doing the actual ledging, and the Lieutenant- Katarina realized she had never caught his name- had made the corrections. Katarina's job was to drink and sign checks, and she'd run out of checks pretty fast.

Her hands rummaged around inside a filing cabinet while Laurent made the unimpressed noise of silence in the corner. Garen Crownguard was bumping elbows with her as he aided in the search. Folders had been haphazardly piled in every place available. Parchments were stained with wine and wrinkled by whatever was used to clean them. One handful was half-burnt, probably saved by more wine. And true to their professionalism, the two avoided eye contact for the entirety of this exploration- until the ledger was placed in Katarina's hands. She made the mistake of following the hands to their owner, and looking up into his gaze.

She held it for a moment, surprised, and they stayed there, locked in combat with the orders not to kill. In his eyes, Katarina saw her reflection. It was slaying his friend in the Howling Marshes. She wondered what he was seeing that made him keep looking, whether he was regretting their battle in Kalamanda, or the battle of their nations. And that bothered her. She knew those battles were at odds. That the thoughts she wanted him to share were treason. So she lowered her gaze and whispered, "thank you."

Garen nodded, and Katarina turned, showing him her back again. The tingle between her shoulder blades exploded across her body. It was trust grabbing fear by her throat. Laurent snatched the ledger from her, and cleared a place for it with the sweep of his arm. He unfolded a pair of spectacles without apology, and held them at the end of his nose as he read. But he only observed it briefly, flipping from the latest page to a few in the middle, and only for a minute. He flipped the book closed then, making the whole of his insistence and outbursts before seem completely unjustified. Garen still didn't understand why he was there.

"That will be all," Laurent grumbled. "Thank you for your time, _Assassin-Diplomat_."

The lieutenant and Laurent remained professional. Everyone else was dumbstruck.

"That's all?" Sarah blurted.

Laurent stepped out of the office and nodded curtly at Sarah's breasts. Her blouse was not an effective bra. Katarina and Garen stepped out of the office after him, and it was swiftly locked by the lieutenant.

When they reached the entryway, the Lieutenant dismissed Sarah fortune and Katarina Du Couteau with a nod, but the women remained. General Laurent and Garen Crownguard were also dismissed, and also remained. The moment became awkward quickly.

"Excellent," Laurent announced. "This all went very well."

Garen's frustration was kept below his expression, but it burned nonetheless. He could still feel the blade he'd snuck in pressing against his skin. Why go through all of this trouble to look at three pages of a ledger? What was he even here for? He could sense that both parties wanted the other to leave first, and that the sword might be needed, but he had no idea when.

Katarina coughed politely.

"If that's all, General..."

She let the statement trail off. The Noxian lieutenant stepped in and added,

"I think the general is done. You're not needed at the embassy anymore, mam."

He nodded again for her to leave, but Katarina stayed to process his words.

"Oh," she realized. "Actually, yes. I have a report to make to the Senior Ambassador-"

"He's busy," the lieutenant blurted.

"I'm sure it can wait," Laurent added. "You know what they say: 'small thorns and a large mouth.'"

Everyone nodded in polite agreement, assuming they should understand the comment in context- any minute now. But only Katarina recognized the phrase. Her confused expression remained, and she swayed in place, staring at Laurent with the oddest expression of the group.

Laurent added, "How about if your next round of drinks is on us?" He gestured towards the door.

Garen was starting to catch on. This had nothing to do with the ledger. But he hadn't figured out what he was here for. Katarina's head shook.

"No."

She paused before remembering, "No, _thank you_, mam."

She didn't make the second correction, and instead turned up the hallway to the ambassador's office. Laurent grabbed the lieutenant's attention.

"Would you be so kind as to escort us out?"

Laurent turned without waiting for an answer, and the lieutenant was quick to fall in abreast with he and Garen.

"The Noxian embassy wishes you a... WON-DER-FUL day."

The trio let the doors close behind them in silence. Garen made sure to keep himself between Laurent and their escort. If Laurent wanted him to bring a sword he would probably need to use it. He didn't want to be caught off guard.

But he was, of course. They had barely passed the guards of the front door when the lieutenant spoke.

"We have thirty seconds until she reaches his office. Ten, if she checks the closet on the way."

"That shouldn't have been a problem," Laurent hissed. "Why did you recall her?"

He flashed spite across Garen to the lieutenant, who rushed to answer,

"It's an automated system. She was signaled when the ambassador didn't answer. It's _your_ job to keep her on a leash, anyway."

The lieutenant finished with a distracted glance at Garen.

Garen grinned and asked, "When you said the ambassador's busy..."

The lieutenant reversed his walk and watched the windows of the embassy while he answered.

"He'll have to cancel all his appointments." He turned again, facing where the group was walking. "We need to move faster."

"No. they'll get suspicious," Laurent whispered back.

"Her friend recognized me-"

"She's drunk," Laurent hissed. "Stay calm."

Garen counted five men at the gates ahead of him. The gate was thin, and based on another Zaunite mechanism. It would take two seconds to shut, and a code to unlock. He had neither. And while his father was right about leaving them, he wanted to die within Demacia's walls.

Ten more seconds and they would be through the gate.

"Wait!"

"The Noxian embassy wishes-"

"Stop them!"

"-a PLEAS-ENT day."

Katarina's voice ran faster than they could hope to.

"Don't run," Laurent hissed.

"Damnit, we-"

"Do. Not. Run."

Garen felt his pulse rising and his blade stirring. The men outside the gates were at the end of a long shift, and weren't alarmed enough to throw the switch. But they closed over the exit with their bodies and began approaching with hands motioning halt. Katarina's footsteps were coming louder behind them. Garen's hand fell to his side where the hilt of his sword was hidden.

"Lauren! Gen- I mean- General-Ambassador!"

The gate guards were blocking the way now. The trio stopped just outside, with the five men forming a semi-circle around them. They could escape, but they would have to fight, and the whole point was to be clandestine. Garen held his hand ready, relaxed. He felt his blood pulsing through his fingers. He felt every move he could make next. He felt Katarina flying at his back.

But what he heard was her falling face first against the cobble path inside the gates.

"Ow!" She groaned, and pushed herself back up with the force of her cussing. She dusted herself off, and Laurent, Garen, and their spy turned to see the Assassin-Diplomat finally catching up. As she approached, Garen relaxed his arm. All of the tension left, and he could feel the draw of his blade readying. He could feel the movement before it was ready to happen, and he knew he was prepared.

Garen had settled now on what to do. He could take the two men behind him by surprise. That would even the odds, assuming Katarina didn't stay on her feet. But he was not ready for anything. Katarina's foot caught on the gate's track, and she tumbled forward with her lip bit in the phonetic "fffffffffuuu..."

Garen did not draw his sword. He did not stand at Laurent's side as a faithful bodyguard. He did not step aside. Garen's hands flashed like lightning drawing her into a cloud. No- a camera flashed. The light blazed between their eyes, and he saw again what he'd seen as he handed her the ledger.

He was in the reflection of her eyes, in the Hasty Hammer Inn, in a memory he had never managed to forget. With Jarvan and Vayne beside him, he had only one duty, just to his country- to his prince. But when the windows shattered, a piece of him broke inside. Katarina entered in all the beauty he had seen before. When she twirled, her hair was like the dervishes of Shurima lore. Her emerald eyes sparkled in every blade of falling glass. And in the sheen of every dagger she threw was the blood of her hair or her enemies. Her assassins were slain as they reached him, but when Garen defeated her, when he had her knocked over a table with his sword against her throat, he panicked. And he fled.

That was what he saw in her eyes- the expression of his face- his reluctance to kill her. The sounds of sprinting armor brought them back into the present, and Garen and Katarina turned from each other's embrace to see that the guards had left up the street, following the Lieutenant's commands.

"Get that camera!"

He had made a clean escape.

A gentle cough from Laurent drew Katarina and Garen to their senses. They had remained in each other's arms. Katarina was the first to back away, her embarrassment evident in Sarah Fortune's grinning, giggling hiccups.

"Oh," she mumbled. And she pulled a pair of spectacles from her pocket for Laurent.

"You left these."


	20. Homefront

After four years of barracks life, Katarina Du Couteau felt her weight sink into the edge of her own bed. The melding of satin sheets to her body was a stranger's embrace. The ornate ruby and onyx decorations of the room were curious eyes. Noble accommodations did not make her house her home. So she did not lie down. She sat on the bed that was hers only in title, and stared at a wall that had been adorned per her father's instructions, but even then not personally. Color schemes had been passed on to planners, inventory had been passed on to decorators, positions had been passed on to servants, and maintenance had finally fallen to the care of maids, until nothing but smudges from the fondling by impersonal minds remained. And in that windowless horror of a room, she felt as if she alone suffered this fate.

Katarina had already bathed. The water had changed as it strained through the events of her absence. Every familiar detail had been scooted an inch out of place, nudged by her new perspective. And she hated it. Katarina threw off the room with the rest of her battle kit, and soared along the hallways in search of better company. She knew she had a sister somewhere in this wretched tomb.

It was on her way to the East Wing, as she passed along the interior balcony to the foyer, that she learned of her other guests. When her father had deposited her on the doorstep and ordered his carriage onward, she had assumed he would be out for another week or so. With the hood of his raincoat on, her father had traded a face for a shadow, but he was still the man with a presence to overpower the night.

It had been only hours since then. And he had not returned alone. She saw from the interior balcony over the foyer as Marcus offered to take someone's raincoat down on the ground floor. And a young teen mumbled his thanks with uncomfortable humility as he shrugged the soaked garment loose. Katarina recognized the voice. Remembering herself, she ducked back to the nearest wall.

Her nightgown was not public attire, but the guest caught only the tail end of it gliding to her rest as she hid. He turned back to Marcus Du Couteau, and tried to restrain the desperation in his frigid shakes when he asked,

"There are other people here?"

In the following silence, his tone seemed to add "people like me?"

Katarina could imagine her father's subtle nod.

"I have two daughters," he grumbled. "Cassieopeia is ill. And you just saw more of Katarina than most men ever will. She'll greet you when she's ready."

Katarina noted the absent comment. For ten years he had been telling guests that mother was ill, and only now could he let it go. With a sick lurch she realized that he had just said the same about her sister.

"Kat-Katarina," the boy shivered. His surroundings had finally permeated through his freezing bones and into his mind, and Katarina could see, as she peered around the wall, that he was staring at her father like a ghost.

"Y-Y-You- You're ..."

The boy's shivers overtook him. His clothing was drenched with rain carried in from Zaun by Freljord's breath. It was not a rain that the weak often survived. Katarina slid back into cover as she saw the boy's eyes widen. Her father had finally removed the hood of his raincoat.

"Yes. I am General Marcus Du Couteau, of the High Command. And your name?"

Marcus waited, removing his gloves while the boy shivered and dripped in the entryway. He wasn't stalling for time or gathering himself. Katarina had leaned around the wall enough to see that the boy was thinking.

"I don't have one," he finally answered. "No one ever named me."

His head was now bowed to the general, not extended in the cocky arrogance he had worn in Kalamanda. But his eyes peeked up at Marcus apologetically.

Marcus pocketed his gloves and cast off his raincoat with the wave of his arm. It landed and hooked on the wall in its usual position.

"Then what would you like to be called?"

His voice was too low for its usual gravelly musk. He seemed to be whispering, controlling the conversation with his tone.

"Talon," the boy answered.

Marcus nodded. "Talon then. Talon Du Couteau."

"What?"

Katarina ducked behind the wall again as Talon's eyes turned up to her. Twice she'd revealed herself now.

"Do you remember your promise, Talon?"

Her father's voice remained low and in charge.

"Yes," Talon answered.

"Your life is now mine. And there are some rules I expect you to obey."

He waited for Talon to nod through his shakes and answer, "yes, sir."

"You will not enter my study. You will not enter the East Wing without my permission. You will not speak to anyone outside of this family without my permission. You will behave like a member of this family at all times. Now repeat that back to me."

Marcus' back was to Katarina, eyes locking Talon into the conversation. Talon nodded.

"Stay out of the East Wing and they study. Don't speak. Be family."

He shivered, shaking loose tension with the cold. But seeing Marcus' expression, he added, "sir."

Marcus nodded, and turned to retire. But Talon's voice finally broke into an honesty that would have killed him in the streets.

"Why do this for me?"

The humbling of defeat and incredible generosity had seized Talon like the cold. The emotions wavered in his voice.

Marcus answered over his shoulder as he left the foyer. "I promised to train you." He stopped in the doorway. "Here's your first lesson, Talon. Never appraise a gift in front of its giver."

Marcus turned to leave again, but caught himself this time and added, "You have a bed in the West Wing. Wait here and Katarina will show you to it in her time."

Katarina sprinted and rolled through the balcony in near silence. A less quick eye would have missed her, but Talon caught the beauty of her motions. And just for that, he decided to wait.

Katarina did not speak to Talon that first night. The following morning was a race to the East Wing. Talon wasn't allowed there, and she had no intention of seeing him until she was ready. Besides that , she had fond memories of a sister whose path had veered far from her own. It seemed only right that they meet again after so long. Katarina hadn't given up on her yet. Mother was "ill" to the public long past her death, but Katarina had believed it until the press had dropped the subject. She owed her sister the same courtesy.

The memory of Cassie's room had been replaced by a strange bifurcation. The translucent bannisters of her bed, once seductive, were now sown as a single sheet that cut the room in half.

"Doctor's orders," Cassie mumbled through it.

Katarina couldn't contain a pained laugh.

"It could be worse. Dad said you were 'ill.'"

She waited through Cassie's tragic giggle, and sat in a chair against the far wall. The silence would have fallen from there to their fallen mother, so Katarina stabbed it again.

"I guess if you stay in bed long enough you get stuck there."

It was a joke and an insult. Katarina had learned little about subtle conversation, but she had learned it from the best. And she knew that Cassiopeia would die out of her element like any other professional. She could sense the smile of an accepted challenge when her sister answered.

"And I guess it's the same if you stay _out_." She let it sit for a half-beat just to marinate her follow up. "Well... depending on which papers you read."

Katarina nodded and smiled, wishing she could volley more banter for her sister's sake.

"Is it really doctor's orders?" she murmured. "I mean... a sheet isn't much protection."

Cassie feigned a cough and rasped ironically, "the plague can only be stopped by a harlot's bedsheets."

Rarely had jokes passed between them without a victim, and Katarina cherished the moment in which their sisterhood was a friendship. She hadn't giggled for as long as she could remember. When the silence returned, she knew it would not happen again soon.

Cassie's silhouette sat up in bed and stared through the sheet.

"I hear you have a scar now. Are you hideous?"

The hope in Cassie's voice made Katarina sigh.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I could easily cover it with some makeup. Grieve actually offered to remove it."

"Oh, you _could?_ So you're getting good looks or scared looks?"

Cassie seemed to bite her tongue while Katarina laughed at her own expense.

"Well I got a good look from our guest last night. He caught me in my nightie."

They laughed together again while Katarina hid a blush. But she was interrupted and surprised by her sister's response. Cassie's silhouette sat up higher in bed and leaned flat on her stomach with her head cradled in her hands and propped up with her elbows. Her legs were a large, amorphous mass, probably wrapped up in her blankets.

"Talon, right? Is he cute?"

She waited for Katarina not to answer.

"How cute?" Cassie pressed.

Katarina bit her lip, holding back thoughts as much as words before she settled on,

"He's Talon _Du Couteau_ now."

Katarina could not bear when Cassie used silence as a weapon.

"I want to meet him," she finally said.

Cassie waited for Katarina to vocalize her nod.

"I would. Bring him, I mean. But , um... well he's not allowed back here without dad's permission."

The silence that followed made Katarina nearly stand from her chair. But when Cassie spoke again, it was not with the frail voice of a woman near death.

"Sisssster," she cooed. Katarina could see it coming before she finished.

"My dearest, most favorite sister. Could you do me a favor?"

Katarina sighed.

"When dad finds out, this was your idea."

No opportunity arose in the next week. Katarina found herself conversing with her sister daily, and otherwise wandering the halls alone. She had yet to see past the veil of secrecy into any true condition, but she had also kept her distance. Cassie kept conversation away from what ailed her, and instead expressed daily desire for gossip about Talon.

There was nothing to tell. Father had wandered into the cold, dark night of Noxus' underbelly to find a good fight. And Talon was the son he'd never had. Katarina hadn't gotten to speak to him yet. Every moment of his and Marcus' days was spent on vaccinations, enlistment, registration, and all sorts of introduction to society. Their free time was spent sparring or in the library. They were staying up for most of the night and passing out with maps and encyclopedias sprawled open around them. For the first three nights, Marcus had brought a blanket for Talon. For the fourth, it was Talon who did the honors.

Cassie found this fascinating. Katarina felt sick.

So now she was pacing in the parlor, crossing the gaze of a new statue every half-minute while she fumed and picked her words. The statue was of the head butler. He had died recently, but none of the servants claimed to know how. It wasn't Katarina's problem.

Talon had her father's attention in the dueling atrium for now. They would finish and come here, just as in the last few days. Katarina glanced over the chairs and tables, picking out a few titles from the books scrambled there.

_Ion.. ian Fer-vor. Ency... clop... edia of the Ancients. Tales from Frelj... Frelj..._

Katarina turned her head sideways and stared long enough to know she couldn't pronounce it. Now she had a _brother_ who was smarter than her too. _Great._

The sound of footsteps and men's chuckles came haunting from the hallway, and Katarina realized she could not be caught pacing. She stopped and picked a book at random from the nearest shelf, then turned her head down and buried her nose.

"I can think of a few gang fights that would have come in handy in," Talon confided.

Marcus scoffed.

"Boy, when I'm done with you, you'll never see a gang fight again." His smile caught the words and appended, "Well, they'll never see it. Get cleaned up. I'll meet you in the library in a few hours."

They rounded the corner into Katarina's nonchalance, and met her gaze as she turned and looked up. Her eyes met Talon's, and her heart skipped a beat at the intrusion. She still hadn't adjusted to having a gorgeous step-brother wandering her home with a coy smile. The coy smile was aimed at her book now, but it disappeared under a professional stonewall, and Talon's head bowed as he backed out and away to his duties.

Marcus Du Couteau, the man with a presence that glued families, stopped in the entryway with his gaze on Katarina, and plucked at the fingers of his dueling gloves.

"_Eevie's Rose_," he murmured. "I spent a whole summer on that book."

The gravelly musk of his voice had improved to the growl of a youthful tiger, and as he tossed his gloves into a bachelor's pile of oddments, he revealed a spring in his step on the way to Katarina's side.

"I found it much easier to read from the right frame of mind, though."

He eyed Katarina oddly. She blinked.

"Right frame of mind?"

Her eyes followed his hand with tempered caution as he reached for the book. This wouldn't be the first occasion he'd assaulted her to test her preparedness. But his hand grabbed the book by its top, and then rotated it on end.

"Right side up," he chided. "What's bothering you?"

Katarina sighed. He'd caught her fair and square. She finished before she choked on the realization of who else had caught her. Her eyes lifted finally to her father's, and he shared her pain in a rare moment of empathy.

"You don't like Talon."

He sighed and turned away before her head shook, and he pulled a letter from his pocket- the seal of a black rose intact- and tossed it into the pile with his gloves.

"It's not that," she said. "I just... I- are you- were you going to read that?"

She gestured at the letter, and Marcus glanced to it less than longingly. He sighed again, deflating every time from his youthful exuberance to the overburdened general.

"Katie, I've got the Summoners' League running a propaganda campaign throughout Valoran about Noxus' use of magic in Kalamanda. Specifically the Grieve/Carin incident. They've predicted the worst winter on record, and they're blaming it on us. I'm expected to raise a Navy from scratch and a military from a militia. My duties extend to the networks I have to maintain and create, and all the way down to your sister lying sick in bed."

He paused at that, ruminating over the failure to save his wife.

"But if you have a problem, I can set all that aside."

He watched Katarina with weary eyes as her head bobbled in an accepting nod and a dismissive shake.

"Yeah. No. I'm- I'm sorry. I just- I can-"

She turned to leave and solve her problems elsewhere. But the moment was taken again by the man with the presence to listen.

"Kat," he grumbled.

She stopped.

"That wasn't sarcasm," he whispered.

Katarina nodded. Her shoulders sank, falling from a high strung retreat, and she turned back to him.

"It's... it's not Talon. I want to talk about what happened at the embassy in Bilgewater."

The scene in the embassy had been sobering, even to the sober. The ambassador had not been murdered by any kind of cunning or discrete assassin. He had been brutalized in life and left with a bottle of nyzer poison so he could end the pain himself- that and a letter. Katarina had wavered on her heels in shock at the amount and locations of the man's blood. Two of his teeth had been removed from his jaw and lodged into the side of the desk. An eye had yet to be recovered. The first forensic analyst present was a summoner named Buri. Braxton Buri had a background in healing schools, and an extensive knowledge of alchemy and hemomancy, but lacked the gift for either. It was he that found the letter, written in blood.

Katarina swallowed and looked her father in the eyes. She pointed at the letter he'd discarded in the pile.

"We found a letter with the ambassador's body... from... with the- it was sealed with a black rose."

She saw on his face that the question wasn't clear, and tried to clarify.

"If I'm going to work as part of this group..."

Her head shook. She didn't even know what she was asking. But the question sprang from that uncertainty.

"What did he _do_ to earn that?"

Her voice shook, another weakness- her father noted it with his expression.

"I was briefed about the incident, but I haven't the slightest clue what you're talking about."

Marcus' voice did not shake, but he had tells, and he was telling Katarina something entirely different from his words.

Braxton Buri was not a hemomancer, but he was an accomplished evoker and healer. He had identified only two sets of blood in the room. One belonged to the ambassador. When he enchanted the second set, Katarina knew that the letter was not a fake.

"Blood... from a rose?"

Buri had turned to Katarina for answers.

"A black rose," she'd mumbled.

Marcus sighed, this time annoyed.

"Then I'd say he's not a very good forensic analyst, Kat. I don't need to explain to you why something ridiculous happened. I wasn't there."

Marcus' arms folded as a shield for Katarina's rising voice.

"There was a lieutenant there-"

"In the closet-"

"No! There was another lieutenant there! He left with-"

She stopped herself short of mentioning Garen.

"He left with the Demacian inspectors. They were there to recover him. But he isn't Demacian. I know him. I've seen him before. He's a courier for- for-" she gestured at the letter, shying from the words of so many tabloids- "I've seen him before. He handed me a letter at Killik Naval Yard, and he was working with Missy at the- He was working with Sarah Fortune at the- in Bilgewater."

Katarina's bangs had fallen loose over an eye. She snorted them back and folded her arms. Marcus sighed.

"What crime deserves pain before death?"

He had drilled her on this before, and Katarina knew she was as close to an answer as she would get.

"Death before dishonor," she recited. It lacked the conviction of the faithful, but held the fear of a worshiper. Her father nodded.

"I don't want to talk about Bildgewater anymore. Anything else?"

His voice lacked the patience that the conversation had begun with, so Katarina shook her head and turned to leave. Marcus had reclined by now against one of the parlor's desks, and he reached over it to scoop up the letter he had set down earlier. Katarina had only made it as far as the hallway when he summoned her back.

"Kat!"

She stepped back around the doorway cautiously, knowing from his tone that she was entering his anger. He had opened the letter, and was now staring at its contents with a slide show of unfavorable responses. Betrayal. Understanding. Disbelief. Humor. Anger. His face settled on a reasoned approach- there must be a rational explanation for this. And finally, his face rose to Katarina.

"I want to talk about what happened at the embassy in Bildgewater," he said. And he turned the parcel around to show her. It was a developed photograph from a highly advanced, handheld zaunite contraption. The photo was of her gazing and leaning into Garen Crownguard, her lip bit in the phonetic "f," and one leg popped into the air behind her.

"I don't," she answered.

"No," Marcus fumed. "No. You explain this."

"I tripped."

"Why?"

His gaze held her just as tightly as his mind gripped the truth. Katarina's face flushed.

"Because I _tripped_!"

"You haven't tripped since you were seven. Why now? Why after a week in Bilgewater at the exact moment that you see Garen Crownguard. Why- of all the GODS DAMNED moments in your life- why then?"

His fury was well-checked, but present. Katarina swallowed and pondered an evasion. She saw none. Just as her father would insist,

"I own you. Don't you dare lie to me, young woman."

The man with a presence that swayed nations had placed his pressure on her. Katarina caved.

"I was drunk," she whispered. She could no longer meet his eyes.

Silence in the Du Couteau residence was usually reserved for dinner. But Marcus would not grace the house now with a sigh. He nodded, once, twice, and then waved for her to leave. He turned his back as she did, and began rummaging his bachelor's piles together as she exited. But the rummaging stopped, and Katarina realized her mistake with a pang of fear.

She twirled and ducked, dagger drawn fast enough to parry the swing of his sword. Another of his insane assaults.

"Drunk!" he roared.

Maybe it was because he lacked a son. Maybe it was because he lacked a wife.

"A hundred feet from a Demacian embassy without a sword at your side- and INTOXICATED!"

Katarina drew her second dagger in time to block a two-handed swing at her waist. She cartwheeled over a strike at her legs and tripped over a chair. She kicked it into his path as she rose, buying time and selling a valuable weapon.

Marcus barely broke stride as he passed through it. He had managed to kick it up into his hand as he charged, and pinned her against a suddenly apparent wall at her back. Katarina palm-striked one of the legs off trying to get free, and used another two to hoist herself over a swing at her legs. She kicked at his chest, using her back against the wall as leverage. Marcus grunted like a drum through the strike, but returned with a second charge, and found Katarina laying prone for him. With his weight gone, the chair had fallen, and dropped her under it to the ground. She couldn't rise in time to dodge, and her hands raised too late to block.

And for the first time in her life, she felt the pierce of her father's steel. It had graced the contours of her cheeks since the cradle, but never once had her father harmed her. Never once had he left a mark. Katarina clutched at her eye and trembled, honestly fearing for her life as the tip of his blade pressed in against her throat. He had reopened the scar as a reminder, adding insult to injury. As a younger girl, she would have cried. Now she trembled. The blood was pouring through her fingers again, just like that night in the crypt. And there again was the pitiful reflection of her mercy, this time in his blade.

"You are an eighteen year investment," Marcus murmured. His rage had been sated by a point well received.

"I will _not_ see that thrown away on a single night in some Bilgeater pub. From now on you drink only what and when I say, do you understand?"

His blade choked her, and Katarina nodded.

"Go clean yourself up. And never speak or think of the embassy or that letter again. _Forget_ it."

But she couldn't. They had found it in his stomach. He had swallowed it before the beating, apparently thinking he was alone- that he could escape. He had tried to run, and made it as far as his door. Summoner Buri followed blood splatters around the room and simulated the brutality with illusions. Whoever had slain this man knew how to stay clean. From every punch came a projectile of blood and other fluids, but never did they grace the attacker. The Ambassador had been mauled by a ghost.

His stomach had been punctured and drained of acid before the letter could be digested. And because of that, the living gathered advice to avoiders of his fate.

"Transcendence is not refused."


	21. Couteau Hiver

**Protip: This is Part II to the last chapter.**

* * *

><p>Marcus Du Couteau received another letter that week, and left on business. This meant that Katarina could no longer avoid Talon. Their first words were exchanged in the dueling atrium. Per father's instruction's they were to spar daily for two hours with whatever they preferred. Katarina selected a broadsword from the family armory. The blade was just under half her height with a basket-hilt. Talon had found two short-swords, just longer than daggers, with chinks near their tips. Her first words to him were "<em>en garde.<em>"

She had never studied the language of nobles, but she had studied the sword. Talon's first word came a moment later.

"Nice."

He was gazing down her blade at the same grace and beauty he'd seen that first night in the foyer. "You're better at this than I am," he grinned.

Katarina returned to a ready stance, then dropped it, and flipped her hair.

"I know."

She returned to her starting mark while Talon recovered his blades and found his place. Their second contact was not the same. Talon began with the same mistakes, drawing Katarina in to disarm him again. But proximity was the street fighter's range. He parried and pulled her strike, drawing Katarina forward off her balance. He released both of his daggers and quickly had Katarina's own sword held against her. Katarina did not have Talon's experience, but she was trained. No sooner had he raised the stolen sword than she was pivoting on her extended heel. The blade clattered away under her spinning back kick.

Talon lunged, arms hooking to grapple her head, and Katarina accepted with a grapple of her own. It was only then, within a mutual collar tie, that she realized her mistake. Talon was significantly stronger in his arms. She drove a knee at his stomach, and struggled to replant her footing when his knee parried. The chance was interrupted when he lifted her, like paper. A moment later, Katarina was on her back, wondering where all her air went. Talon's legs wrapped around her waist as she tried to rise, and his arms grabbed at hers. He'd won. Katarina knew it, but she couldn't let it be true. It took another full minute of her punching and writhing under his grip, but her hands were securely held within his. Even then she didn't stop. It wasn't until his eyes held her that the bucking ended and she finally submitted. Talon drew a dagger from within his dueling vest and gripped it by the blade. He tapped her neck with the handle, but it was slow, not like a stab. And as he drew it across her neck, Katarina had to hold back a light gasp.

She was still in the grip of his eyes when he finished, and she wanted to stay there, holding his attention and feeling his body pressed against her. But Talon's eyes shook suddenly, as if he had returned to his senses. He released her.

"Uh... sorry. Touche."

Katarina nodded. "Touche."

One rule lead to another, and by the afternoon, Talon had sat with Katarina in the East Wing. They had brought some periodicals to read to Cassie, and Talon had been kind enough to do the honors at her request. Katarina was thankful to not be her sister's punching bag today. It would have taken only a word from her to have Talon laughing at her reading comprehension. Instead, it was she appreciating his. Talon had kept up a small library of scraps in his hideaway, or so he said. Cassie and Katarina had listened intently, forgetting every word as it passed, but clinging to the company of his voice. A week had passed this way, and today was no different.

"Oh," he was saying. "The Journal of Justice has another article on Kalamanda." He waved the periodical so Cassie could see its silhouette through the sheet.

"Journal's pretty popular on the street. They've got an investigative journalist in every city-state. Usually do controversial stuff or conspiracies. There was this one on the Black Rose I read a lot, about-"

He paused, remembering himself.

"I'll just read."

He flattened the paper with a shake, and cleared his throat.

"Ralston Farnsley, reporting from the Institute of War. He's their head guy. 'I bring you grave news today, summoners. As you well know, the Institute of War interests itself in the violent and reckless expenditures of magic, especially as it pertains to the health our fragile world. It has been with great trepidation that league summoners have been watching the increased usage of magic in Valoran this year, and it was received with great shock when the news of Kalamanda arrived. As a reminder to you all, this engagement was marked by a Class 3 direct confrontation between the summoners Sander Grieve and Lessa Carin. The Grieve/Carin incident included an expenditure of magic just within the limits set by the Rune War Concordant, on which our organization was founded. But this limitation is not enough. This engagement alone has tipped the balance of natural magic, and the consequences will be dire for us all. Analysis by league mages indicates a sharper chill this winter, a record, in fact. But to assume that this is the worst is to assume that war will end for the good of us all. It is without a doubt more necessary now than ever that the Summoners' League become the sole outlet for political disagreement. I shall leave you with that thought and one more. Is Noxus' retribution worth the cost of another war?'"

Talon cleared his throat, shying away from the attention Cassie and Kat were giving.

"Sounds like it's gonna' get pretty hard out there," he muttered.

Katarina nodded and her lips parted, but her sister spoke first.

"You said you grew up in the streets. Didn't you have parents?"

She was propped up on her elbows at the foot of her bed, with the mass of her legs wrapped up in her blankets again. Talon's head shook.

"I don't have any memory of them."

He let the girls ogle his hardships in peace.

"Where did you learn to read?" Cassie. Talon scratched his head.

"Oh. I had a friend. We read... articles together."

His eyes were nervous at the curtain, and he seemed in his embarrassment to even forget that Katarina was there. Cassie pressed him.

"What kind of articles?" she chided.

Talon chuckled, "men's health," and the conversation quickly turned to Cassie nudging at a specific issue of a specific magazine. She had let one of father's friends connect her with a company in Zaun interested in "men's health" and was now a hidden pinup in thousands of households. It never did Katarina any favors, but now was not the time for passive-aggressive retribution. She did not sigh or make snide comments, and instead let herself fade out of the conversation. Cassie had been withering away without company, and now she seemed to be glowing with a male's appreciation. They continued on, and Katarian realized that, more than jealous, she felt glad that Talon was taking the spotlight. Talon was kind, and Cassiopeia was happy. She was still thinking this when Cassie's words sunk in to her head.

"Talon… would you do something for me?"

Her voice had turned shy for the first time in Katarina's memory.

"Yeah," Talon nodded.

"I want... I want you to look at me. And I want you to tell me if I'm beautiful."

Cassiopeia sat up and scooted her silhouette to the edge of her bed.

Talon and Katarina were frozen in their chairs.

"But," Cassie whispered, "I want you to be honest."

Katarina sat up then, and the two remembered with a jerk of their heads that she was there.

"Are you sure?" she blurted. "What about me?" was in her tone.

"I... I would like some privacy, too, Katie."

Cassiopeia had never favored her sister's company. So it was not a blow to Katarina. It was, but she knew she should have expected it.

"Okay," she nodded. Exiting past Talon felt suddenly awkward, and Katarina made quick work of it.

She didn't know how to feel for the next few days. But a strange new emotion without a face prowled the landscape of body, hiding behind each of the others in turns. She would find herself standing in the wine cellar or the larder just after eating. She tinkered with spare instruments she'd never learned and skimmed the introductions to books she didn't care for. Every emotion was a mask for this one, and each in turn was discarded until finally she took up a shovel and marched into the West Garden. It was in the morning, just after her fencing match with Garen- _with_ _Talon_- but still too early for lunch. They had decidedly avoided hand-to-hand combat. The emotion was there. She could feel it lurking behind a less-stable facade every time she entered the sparring atrium. She could feel it now as she approached the right tree. It had grown in the last twelve years.

She pressed her back against the tree and took twelve steps, compensating for the change in stride, then stopped and dropped the tip of her shovel in the dirt. Talon was exiting the house in her direction. She turned away from him and began digging. Somewhere in the ground lay her gift to her sister. Together in this very spot, years in the past, they had foreseen the tragedy of life as a vague shadow to be warded away by the sentimental value of their current assets. And so a vessel was procured and buried. Father had only found out afterward, and stared at the filled hole for less than a minute before concluding that recovering the items was not worth his time. Katarina laughed at the thought now.

"Something funny?"

She looked up to see Talon had reached her. He was leaning against the tree with the same coy smirk he'd shot at her book. Her scar itched suddenly, and she wondered if he could tell it was fresh again. Her sister was far more beautiful, even as a twin. She carried herself differently. Katarina put her head down and shoveled harder. Talon had forced is way into every other piece of her life. He couldn't have this.

"Can I help?"

"No."

She shoveled another pile of dirt, and the process continued in silence. But Talon stayed, not leaving her side, not letting her fume or laugh or cry in private. She still didn't know. Maybe the faceless emotion was hiding in the time capsule. Her shovel struck it, and she tossed the tool aside. Talon stepped forward to peer, but the force of her glare snapped him back against the tree. She kneeled and continued digging aside the soft, wet earth with her hands. It didn't take long to recover from there. She sat up with her mother's old jewelry box clutched in her hands, and popped the latch on it to reveal the riches within.

A forgotten rag doll. A piece of quartz. A feather from Freljord. A gold earring that didn't fall out when they'd stolen the box. A metal statuette from Zaun. Katarina tossed these aside, then back into the hole on a second thought. Talon was at her side now, but she hadn't noticed as he crept. Her attention belonged to the last two items in the box. Two letters. Katarina placed her's to Cassie back in to box, and inspected the other. She remembered running around the house together with the stolen jewelry box trying to find stationary. Mother had called Marcus away from his work, to help her search, and the two girls had decided to use what was on his desk to finish the job.

So she was staring at a letter sealed in black ink, with the insignia of a rose. The petals tore loose under her finger, and she drew the parchment like a blade at her faceless stalker. But it ran behind another feeling as she did. It was not curiosity. Oh well. The folds of the letter parted like Cassie's lips voicing the words within.

_My dearest and most favorite sister Katarina,_

_I would never give you permission to open this letter as long as I'm alive, so I'm either dead or very upset with you._

Katarina sighed, realizing Cassie was right. She carried on anyway.

_If I am dead, I leave all of my worldly possessions to my husband. I know that he'll be my first and only lover, even if father doesn't approve of him. If you have any money, please move in with him and help him raise my two daughters to be happy adventurers just like us. I want them to go to ballet and learn maths at school and make many friends. But don't do that if it would make you unhappy, because I want you to be happy, too._

_Also, I want you to at least have a boyfriend. I know I'm the prettier twin, but you should at least get a really cute guy who's nice to you, even if he isn't from Noxus, and even if father disapproves._

Cassiopeia's signature had already been perfected at that age. Katarina refolded the lips and returned the letter to its envelope. It was only then that she noticed Talon reclining beside her. His angle was respectfully low enough to have not read the letter, and he was now gazing up at her with understanding. She returned nothing. There was nothing to understand.

"What?" she finally asked.

"Did it work?"

"Did what work?" She scowled. Talon nodded at the letter in her hands.

"You came out here to remember, or forget. Something's bothering you." He offered a smile. A bang of scarlet fell over her unscarred eye in rejection.

"I'll give you three guesses what," she spat. Talon was not dissuaded.

"Is it Garen Crownguard?" His gaze held when hers struck him. But Katarina realized he was joking. It was a ploy for her to speak, to join in on the game. She smiled, and realized through the insult that it was a very clever joke. And for the first time that week, she laughed without regard for what would be polite or correct or well received.

"You got me," she finally answered. "I'm upset."

She shot a warning glance over his nose and added, "but that's all I'm going to tell _you_."

Talon nodded. "That's fair. We can talk about Cassie, if you want."

Katarina grinned. "Oh, a good gossiper? You'll fit right in." She realized her mistake, and made another when she glanced to see if he noticed.

"Or we can talk about me," he didn't say. It was in his eyes, though. He saved her from the blunder instead.

"She's lonely. That happens when you hide behind a veil and never let anyone cross." He let her process the remark in silence, and smiled respectfully when he saw in her eyes that she understood. Katarina turned to him.

"You wouldn't understand."

"You could explain," he murmured.

Katarina turned away from him. She couldn't. She didn't know. And she didn't want to admit that she needed anyone's help to find out herself. But Talon was a fighter.

"Do I get two more guesses?" he chided.

Katarina wiped at phantom tears and chuckled.

"Sure."

"Something's bothering you. And it isn't Garen Crownguard or the papers."

He rolled onto his back and into a thought.

"It isn't death," he pondered. "It... It isn't _your_ death."

He rolled back to her.

"It has to do with your... with Marcus." He shied away from the word "father."

Katarina didn't answer. She looked away again while Talon continued.

"He talks about you a lot. In a good way." Talon wanted to say more. He settled on, "but I'm not aloud to say more."

Katarina felt her shoulders relax. That was part of it.

"Cassie said she's jealous of you," he added. Katarina glared.

"You're lying."

"Nope."

"Then it's a secret, and you aren't supposed to tell me." Katarina crossed her arms.

"I told her you're jealous of her, too," Talon chuckled.

"Well I'm not." Katarina was too drawn in by his laughing. She even sounded defensive to herself. And he wouldn't stop. The laughing poured out like a flood and swept her away. That was another problem, another load off her shoulders. But when she was finally able to turn back to him, she felt the familiar itch of self-consciousness. She adjusted her bangs, and let one cover her scar. But Talon's expression fell, and his hand reached out to stop it.

Katarina caught him part-way in reflex. His eyes asked permission, but she couldn't answer.

"Another scarlet curtain?"

His tone was not insulting. His eyes were not arrogant. Katarina had never seen anyone care. So she let her hand fall, and she let his brush the bang back over her ear.

"Most people have to wear badges," he whispered.

Katarina stuck out her chin with her eyes closed, raising her face and wearing the mark for the first time like a decoration. She took a glance at Talon's expression, questioning.

"Do you want me to be honest?" he murmured.

She felt the itch return.

_Maybe. _

She closed her eyes, and nodded. But her eyes shot open again and she threatened, "I'm going to ask Cassie what you told her. So don't double up."

She closed her eyes again, anticipating rejection or flattery. Talon paused under higher stakes. But he was finally able to mumble, "If I had that scar I would never hide it."

Katarina was less than impressed. She sighed.

"Well you're a guy."

"I think I'm a little more than a guy," he bargained.

Katarian nodded. "Ok. But I'm a girl. Girl's don't wear scars."

Talon shook his head. "I think you're a little more than just a girl."

That was it. The final weight lifted from her shoulders and the emotion had nowhere to hide. She finally had to admit that she was no longer the girl that had buried hopeful dreams to be dug up in a happy future. No matter what her friends called her, she was now First Lieutenant Katarina Du Couteau," and heir to the estate. The thought dispersed, and before her eyes was Talon. He didn't seem smug or challenging. He was just lying on his side, watching her think.

"You make a good brother," she admitted.

But she saw in his eyes what she thought just after. Brother wasn't the right word.

Another week passed without Marcus' return. Winter was coming with her seasonal Freljordian immigrants, and the three keepers of the estate toiled daily at their assigned tasks. A morning of combat made the rest of the day's work seem fresh. Katarina fell asleep every night anticipating the break of the sun and the clash of blades. She could feel the thrill especially now. She took her starting mark and raised a rapier. Talon had found two circular blades hidden away in the back of the armory. They'd had to check the inventory list to find out that these were "Wind and Fire wheels" from Ionia.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," he chuckled.

Katarina laughed through her "en garde," and lunged, striking at his torso quick and merciless with the blunted tip. Four pokes later, and he finally dropped his weapons.

"Ow! Touche! Damn it."

Katarina was giggling at his pain. He retrieved the weapons as they returned to their starting marks, and he raised them again, grinning through pain. But Katarina stopped, and she lowered her sword.

"No," she mumbled.

"What?"

"No. Start closer." She scooted forward, just to the center line, and waited for Talon to stand there as well. The tip of her blade was past him, and they could taste each other's panting.

"Disarm me," Katarina whispered. "Teach me."

She waited, leaving the cue to him, watching in his proximous eyes as he caught and fondled her meaning.

The lesson was not slow or well illustrated. He knocked the sword aside and wrapped an arm around her waist as if to toss her. But he pulled her close and grappled her lips instead. Katarina tore away his vest and returned the hold, wrestling his tongue and trying not to be outdone. She smelt smoke. She heard the cackling of a well fed fire.

Talon pushed her down onto the mat without leaving her lips. Her hands were pinned above her head, and his had free roam over her body. She pressed it into his every touch. But he wasn't Garen. As close as he came, she could only imagine the scene in Kalamanda. His tongue was desperate, not frustrated. Every motion was careful or confident, without the reckless dominance of Demacia's might. Talon sat up to remove his undershirt, but she grabbed his collar and pulled his mouth back, demanding the kiss she needed.

Talon caught on and ripped the dueling vest from her shoulders, pushing her back to the ground. The only thing left over her breasts was a sleeveless leather strap with ties on the front. Moaning and writhing into a hot mess, they discarded of the superfluous articles that noble surroundings had them wear. It was only at the tie under her breast that she stopped him, lip bit with indecision. She tested him for another kiss, but pulled away unsatisfied.

Talon was still above her, his expression cautiously aroused. His undershirt had hid a gorgeous set of muscles. They were fun to rub against. But they weren't Garen. Talon sighed through his nose.

"Do I get one more guess?"

Katarina nodded, and she closed her eyes, expecting his last attempt at a kiss. But his lips passed hers and slid against her cheek.

"The thing that's bothering you isn't him. What's bothering you is that, that isn't bothering you."

She nodded, and she finally couldn't hold up the scarlet veil between them. She cried through her eyelids and kissed him. It didn't matter anymore. That final weight lifted from her shoulders, and for as long as he wanted her, her body was the meaning behind her words.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She kissed it into his mouth, into his chest, into his hands. And as he reached again for the laces below her breasts, she laid herself bare. Footsteps pounded down the hallway to the atrium.

"No. Tell the Matron before anyone else." Marcus.

Talon and Katarina scrambled to their feet, retrieving clothing and dressing as fast as they could. The doors opened on both of them facing opposite walls and securing belts into place. Katarina took an extra second to wipe her face and lock down her expression before turning.

Whatever business had occupied his voice was discarded in a suspicious glare. His eyes turned from Katarina to Talon, blazing, but not certain enough to be angry. Talon's face betrayed nothing when he nodded.

"Welcome home, sir."

Talon saluted, heels clicking together and echoing through the chamber. But Marcus did not relieve his stance with a response. Finally stepping from the entryway, he let a lieutenant enter behind him. Both of them wore black trench coats from the Rune War. Katarina noted only the lieutenant's face, and the intensity of the glare he returned. When Marcus finally deigned to speak, it was with the growl of a man who knew he was being cheated, but knew not how.

"The Summoners' League is calling a summit in Freljord to revise the Rune War concordant. Noxus needs a diplomat who can be..."

His voice trailed away as his eyes caught the single untied lace dangling under his daughter's dueling jacket.

"Right side up," came under his breath. But his fury did not follow. His expression seemed more disappointed in himself, like the one time Swain had won a game of regicide. His head shook free of it.

"There's a summit in Freljord. We have an agenda that we can't negotiate openly." He turned to Katarina with a word, but stopped as he saw the laces dangling. She would have to remove her jacket to fix them. Marcus turned to Talon.

"I'm sending you to Freljord."

He gestured at the lieutenant.

"Talon, Mayfield. Mayfield, Talon. He'll brief you, and you will follow his orders as mine. There's a carriage out front. Pack and leave."

A moment of Talon's hesitation was punctuated when he barked, "Now!"

He did not move or speak again until they had left. Katarina interrupted with a point.

"That was-!"

"I said _Forget. It._"

His fury had finally emerged in his tone. Katarina's eyes followed Talon and Mayfield's exit, and glided back to Marcus in shock. He knew every detail. The horrible things that were so dishonorably done to that man had passed through her father's consent. His lips parted again to whisper,

"and never. Speak. Of it. Again."

Katarina was no longer pointing.

"What were you two doing in here?"

Katarina was no longer thinking.

"Ask your _son,_" she growled.

Marcus' hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

"I'm asking you. Answer me."

"No."

She knew the consequences of defiance. She wanted it. The rapier was just at her feet.

"Every time you open that scar, it will get worse," he warned.

Katarina lifted her chin and let her bangs fall aside.

"It suits me."

Marcus lunged, his signature charge. Katarina cartwheeled away, kicking up the rapier and catching it as she landed. She countered and stabbed with all the vicious speed she had. For the first time in her life, her father was forced to backpedal. She'd put him on the defensive. It lasted a quick second before her sword was suddenly gone, flung through the air above her. A swift and solid kick to her chest knocked the floor to her back.

The pain was anticipated- Her eye was already closed- but nothing eased it. Her shriek echoed to every floor in the atrium. But she would not cover the wound. She stared her father down from beneath his sword, and did not stop her tears. She did not restrain the tremors of her adrenaline, or the spasms of her bottom lip. Marcus was incredulous.

"What were you doing?" he demanded.

"You show him nothing but smiles," She hissed.

The blade lashed again. She sobbed, with no effort to hold it.

"You aren't even upset with him!"

Marcus did not strike her a third time. He moved a step forward, as she had let her neck rest. And from directly above her, he growled, "I wasn't expecting more from him."

Flattered, ashamed, and speechless. The faceless emotion had returned with a thousand masks and her father's voice.

"And now what are you doing? What is that?"

The tip of his blade lifted a tear from her cheek to his nose.

"I'm crying."

She growled through a sob.

"Do you understand that? I'm upset, and I have every right to be!"

The tip of his pointed glare forced her back down. His blade returned at her throat.

"You have _no_ rights," he murmured. "Say it."

Katarina thought she would give him no such pleasure. Not this time. But when his impatience flared, and his blade leaned into the nook of her throat, her fear screamed "I have no rights!"

Marcus scowled.

"Freedom is meaningless if you cannot defend it. Remember that next time you feel like acting out."

He removed a stray hair from her scar with his blade, then produced a black handkerchief to clean it as he stepped away.

"I'm sending you back to Killik Naval yard. And I promoted you to Captain. You have a comission with the 42nd. The paperwork will be done before you arrive. Get cleaned up. There's a carriage waiting for you."

Katarina did not bid him farewell. No goodbyes were exchanged. Walking now from the front door to the front gates, she tightened a black trench coat around her waist, another relic from the Rune War. Her thoughts were buried in shock, leaving the gravel crunching underfoot as the only sound in her world. It seemed everything in nature had found a place to hide from the cold. Even the wind dared not breath. Her breath turned to frost before her eyes as she paced towards the carriage, but as she reached out to catch it, she missed.

Depth perception. The left-half of her face was bandaged, and not even in war. Those thoughts, of her injuries, of the silence, of Talon and Garen and Cassiopeia, of her father's cheer and fury, of the lieutenant-assassin- all these thoughts carried her to the gates. It was only then that she decided she would need one last look at the house before departing. She had been right. It resembled a tomb. But as her eyes lamented her upbringing, they focused on something falling between them: a small, white crystal that danced without a breeze. This time, she caught it, and the flake turned to water in her hand. But that couldn't be. Her gaze rose to a clouded sky, and she gasped.

The Du Couteau residence, for the first time in history, had fallen to winter's embrace.


	22. Tales From Freljord

Garen Crownguard was no longer a painter. His mother fed him steel and trained him with hard sticks until his hands had calloused into fists. But Garen Crownguard had a painters spirit. The brush became a sword, but he still painted in his own image.

He liked to think that it was so, but memories of Kalamanda haunted the minds of all who knew the truth. Jarvan's orders had been to take no prisoners. Garen still didn't know if he would have followed those orders. Had he been a piker and another man had tried to save their sister... he didn't know.

But that pressure tipped his paint, and now he had a series of splotches to organize into an image he wanted to create. His mother still supplied the paint. She had promised Gold and White. But the strangers who greeted him in the Crownguard entryway wore Red and Black trench coats from the Rune War.

Both men saluted, but one wore a liar's smile.

"Jonathan Mayfield," he'd murmured.

His voice did not echo.

"This is Talon," Mayfield added. Another Noxian trench coat, and another new face.

With a nod to Lilia, he finished, "and this is Garen Crownguard?"

That was Mayfield: Quiet; Controlling his information; An intense glare.

Talon had spoken a little more- shaken every hand. His expression revealed that he knew- or knew of- Garen. Lilia seemed familiar with everyone already. She had told Garen they were coming.

"There's a summit in Freljord," she'd said. "We have an agenda that we can't negotiate openly. You will be leaving this week as part of an inter-state force."

We. Interstate. "We" did not mean Demacia. He had been told only that he would be serving his country- That his orders would be given only by a superior he was to meet. Garen did not like the colors on this pallet.

But his mother's words chilled action to thought, and thought to obedience.

"Serve our nation well. Serve _Valoran_ well. Oh and-"

"I love you, mother," he'd predicted.

Their guests had picked up on his strained tone.

"Excellent," Lilia answered. "But not what I-"

"Kill Noxians?" Garen interrupted.

Lilia's lips were tense, as were Talon's. So he was right. It offered no consolation as Lilia finished.

"No. Keep a journal of everything that happens. And be thorough, darling. You're very forgetful."

She nodded, meaning that he was to take her words literally and to the death. Garen nodded back, and was suddenly on the road with two men he knew little to nothing about. The journal was not for him. His mother was demanding a report.

_December 1st, 5 CLE_

_I recognize "Mayfield" from the embassy in Bilgewater. He killed the Noxian ambassador. General Laurent and I rescued him. Talon appears to be a Noxian himself, but has expressed no allegiance._

_Our equipment includes Zaunite craftsmanship, but was delivered by a Demacian quartermaster. Our orders are delivered to Mayfield in envelopes sealed by black roses. Their contents are shared only by Mayfield's mouth. Talon knows me by some fame. Mayfield knows more. By virtue of knowledge- he is in charge._

_December 2nd, 5 CLE_

_We have embarked on the road to Freljord. The sign reads: "Road from Freljord." _

_A line of immigrants agrees._

_December 3rd, 5 CLE_

_2 days north of Howling Marshes. Large construction on The Serpentine. A_

_Piker squad claimed the property belonged to the "Summoners' League" and demanded papers. _

_Mayfield had blank papers, but they were accepted._

_December 5th, 5 CLE_

_Midday stop at Noxian checkpoint near Ironspike mines. Mayfield's blank papers are accepted._

_Well guarded shipment passing south. Murmurs of Obsidian._

_December 7th_

Garen sat squished under the tip of a ready pen. His mother's gaze was the hand holding it down on him. From the edge of a bed, he stared through the pane of a window into its closed shutters. Between him and her lay the furious ice-winds of freljord, the Serpentine River, the Howling Marshes- most of Valoran. But her gaze remained.

The journal was in his lap. His journey had passed through Noxian land, through several of their checkpoints, even. He had passed the Howling Marshes on his left, and the peaks of the Ironspike line on his right. There had been a brief interruption on a bend of the Serpentine river. Garen flipped back and reread the entry. He hadn't realized that the Summoners' League was purchasing real estate.

Why? Why not?

The journal closed and tucked into his tunic, releasing his mind to the present, to the wailing ice-winds of Rakelstrake, Freljord. He disliked when the name played in his mind or on his tongue. He disliked the weather. He disliked his companions.

In the lobby, an hour later, Mayfield was waiting for him. The lobby was an atrium with massive glass windows so the morning sun could glare. Every decoration was flanked by white banners with gold lining. They seemed like shining snow-banks more than an inversion of Demacia's colors. Mayfield and his shadow were the room's only darkness. He was standing by a couch under the windows, and glaring with the sun at a painting on the far wall. It spanned the same length as the three-story windows.

"Mayfield, right?"

Garen's question went unanswered. Mayfield's posture did not shift to greet him, but his brow shifted into a question. Pause.

"We've been traveling together for a week," Mayfield hummed.

His eyes stayed to the painting, but Garen was relieved to see Mayfield's stoic form finally shift. His jaw unhooked and began chewing thoughts. Garen pressed on.

"We're still waiting for Talon, then?"

He had to wait three chews for Mayfield to nod. The painting had his full attention. It was old, probably an important part of Freljord's history- somehow purchased by the hotel's Zaunite owners.

The two centers of focus on the painting were a woman and a god, both naked. The woman was gripping a black rose in her right hand, despite its thorns, and was crying out in agony as she fell into a pool of her own blood. The entire rest of the image was a pantheon of angry deities descending upon her. But one in particular stood out, holding that army at bay with his sword. Garen did not know the names of the Old Gods, or of this one.

So he sighed, feeling the fatigue of travel catch him, and turned to sit in the couch. Talon appeared a moment later, too quietly for Garen's taste. He wore a Noxian trench coat from the Rune War, just like Mayfield's, but his stature was far more fluid and natural. Garen nodded his hello, and was relieved to see that Talon had similar manners.

"Mayfield, right?" Talon asked.

Mayfield let the echo fade before nodding at the painting.

"So..." Talon pressed. "I still haven't been told what we're doing."

He and Garen watched Mayfield's jaw stretch to chew over a particularly large thought before it finally locked into place.

"Garen will be attending the summit as our spotter," Mayfield remembered. "You have credentials. You're a Demacian Diplomat."

He handed them to Garen in an envelope, parting a black, wax rose to reveal Gold and White emblems. Garen could paint with that.

Mayfield turned away from the painting, finally, and turned to Talon.

"We're here for an international gathering called by the Summoners' League. The topic is the Rune War Concordant. After the Rune War, a large group of summoners decided that rules should be set on the use of magic- in order to save the environment. This summit has been called to revise the concordant that was signed at that one."

Garen nodded.

"Yeah," he heard Talon add. "We know."

Mayfield continued.

"Among the dignitaries are three locals: Mauvole, Ashe, and Sejuani. You've heard of them, I assume."

Garen nodded. Talon's head shook. Mayfield stored an annoyed thought with a tilt of his head, then explained.

"Some time in the past, a woman named Avarosa died. Legend now holds that she was a goddess, and therefore rightful ruler of..." he gestured out the window into an inhosptibale storm.

"_This_," he murmured.

"She had three daughters. Sejuani, Ashe, and Mauvole claim that they are the first borns of the direct descendants of those three daughters. That makes them distant cousins, but they call themselves the Three Sisters. There's some primitive belief about firstborns inheriting divinity. So their tribes like to who's-who about the holies. This makes international affairs unreliable. They vote just to spite each other. Talon, you and I will secure those votes. Garen, you will write down everything those three women do in-"

Garen's eyes shot up from the Demacian documents.

"Women?"

Mayfield paused, annoyed.

"Yes. Women- write down what they say and do. If everything goes well, we meet here every night."

Mayfield checked their faces for comprehension, and was disappointed to see none.

Talon nodded.

"We knew all of that. Why not send diplomats? Why Garen Crownguard? Why me?"

Talon's arms folded, obviously unhappy. Garen nodded his agreement. Mayfield scowled.

"Here are a few, more valuable, questions. Why are Noxus and Demacia working together in international affairs while they're at war? Why are the gods involved? Why does the Serpentine flow inland? Those are questions that don't contain their own answers."

Mayfield's scowl, and Garen's impression of him, sharpened as he continued.

"Now let's take a look at your question, Talon. 'Why have three assassins been assigned to a political task?'"

He let the thought sink in before turning to Garen.

There's a carriage out front on it's way to the summit."

And that was all the explanation they had. The group split up, Talon with Mayfield and Garen with his journal.

_December 7th, 5 CLE_

_Noxus does not like Yordles. Piltover does not like Zaun._

The assembly was hosted in a circular room of some historical significance. The sisters- Ashe, Sejuani, and Mauvole- had seats of honor at equal heights in the farthest corners of the room. An inner ring was reserved for each princess' younger sisters. The younger sisters, while not considered divine, were still important to politics. They formed triangular courts beneath each major throne.

Separating them, at the center of the room, was a square of tables, the seated dignitaries of Zaun, Piltover, Noxus, and Demacia. Garen was the only dignitary who sat alone. The other three tables were a constant motion of whispers between at least three dignitaries and five aides each.

The thrones around the outer ring were harried by aides, bodyguards, diplomats, sycophants, and hierophants. And the middle ring was a constant murmur of gossip. A thousand words passed his ears, and he still wasn't sure what to write.

The day had begun with an argument in the inner square after the Triarchs, three competing Princesses, agreed that the meeting should begin. Piltover immediately proposed that Bandle City be included in the international community. Noxus declared that Yordles are not people. Zaun's Trader Commission asked what would stop dogs from inclusion. Nothing productive or meaningful was screamed after that. It's a slippery slope.

The next argument had to do with trade restrictions. Every nation wanted more of these and less of those imported. Garen had missed how that argument transitioned from goods to people, but winter immigration was suddenly a topic. And from there, the discussion finally became the thing it was about: Winter. A chill streaked through the room when it heard its name.

Garen shifted his weight, hugging diplomat's robes closer to himself. It was only then that he noticed Mayfield was sitting next to him, still wearing the Noxian trench coat. A Noxian realized the same with a double take from across the room. But Mayfield's glare was focused on princess Mauvole, so Garen followed it, trying to find whatever had caught his interest.

Mauvole, like her sisters, had platinum hair and snow-white skin. Whatever differences existed, Garen couldn't spot. Royal-White dresses, makeup (was it?), and her expression. Garen hadn't decided yet which one was a goddess, if any, but each of them seemed to have the answer. That was the expression that she wore: Divinity.

Garen tilted his head to Mayfield and whispered under the din of murmurs.

"You said the gods were involved. You believe that?"

For a moment, Garen had expected that Mayfield would explain himself. The man seemed fond of talking, whenever prompted. But his lips were never so loose as to be useful. His glare left the Three Sisters for Garen, and became an incredulous scowl.

"Of course. The wind blew against us the whole way here."

And his face was entirely serious.

"It's Winter. It does that. It blows south in Winter."

Garen felt the way Mayfield looked, as if the other man was missing the common and obvious truth.

"Garen, we crossed the Serpentine twice. The bridges back had us traveling south. The wind was in our face no matter the direction. Does it usually do _that_?"

His scowl was holding some in reserve, waiting for Garen's response. He didn't feel a strong urge to argue religion with an assassin in the center of a political conference. Discretion is the better part of Valor. But just as he sat back in his chair to write what Noxus was shouting, Mayfield pursued.

"And when we hit the first snowfall, we picked up a shadow without a shadow."

Mayfield was fond of either codes or puzzles. Garen couldn't tell if they were meant to be solved. He didn't care.

"Well, I didn't see her," Garen grumbled.

"I suppose you don't remember what _she_ handed you, either."

Mayfield reached into his trench coat and revealed a thin, satin ribbon. Garen did remember, very suddenly. He had been left to unpack the carriage while Talon secured the hotel room and Mayfield presented his credentials. A woman had approached Garen, handed him a ribbon for Mayfield, and...

Garen flipped his journal back to that day. The woman had spoken to him. She had told him the most amazing truths- the very secrets of the universe- and here before him, in his very lap, was the evidence: An entire page of words covered by scribbles. The only unharmed information was a poorly drawn gear with math next to it that Garen didn't know. He had known it. She had explained it to him, but the knowledge was simply gone from his mind.

Garen turned back to Mayfield, remembering where he was, and feeling suddenly insecure in his sanity.

"How did I forget that?"

It was a demand, not a query.

Mayfield nodded, replacing the ribbon.

"You handed this to me, scribbled on your notes, and forgot... because a goddess told you to. So... Why are the gods so interested in our presence?"

Mayfield's gaze fell to Ashe, then turned over to Sejuani.

Garen caught his drift.

"You think one of them... really?"

"The stories came from somewhere."

Garen's head shook.

"I'm not sure," he mumbled. And he reexamined the Sister before him, Mauvole, as a deity instead of a woman. He saw light gleaming off of her in a way he would not expect from any mortal. He saw what her followers must see.

"Well," Mayfield was about to say.

"-of anything," Garen interrupted. "I'm not sure of anything right now."

"No, no, no," Mayfield whispered.

"One thing's for sure."

Garen broke his observations to see that Mayfield's focus had shifted to another of the Sisters.

He finished, "Those... those are _divine _breasts."

Garen had nothing to add, and instead scribbled the Zaunite diplomat's weather control proposition into his lap. Mayfield glanced down at the notes, then sneaked away as soon as Garen was busy. And so the week progressed. Arguments began daily with inconsequential topics, devolved into semantics, and were then discarded in favor of insane propositions. And daily, Mayfield would appear at Garen's side to check his notes, and would depart on the heels of a disconcerting thought about what was real, and what was divine.

A week of epistemology did not prepare Garen's mind for the madness of the coming politics.

_December 14th, 5 CLE_

_Princess Mauvole's camp has rented an entire floor of our inn._

Down in the lobby of the Hextech inn, Talon and Garen gathered for a morning hello under the sun's glare. Like the rest of the week, the sun's rays blinded anyone who looked at the window, and cast sharp shadows of any guest. Unlike the rest of the week, Mayfield was missing. Talon's cautious worry was plain under his hood, and obvious in his posture through the trench coat. He looked how Garen felt. On any other day, Mayfield would be standing near them and staring into the painting's mysteries. Instead, they were huddling their gossip, trading notes- and avoiding the ears of a strange woman.

Her hair was Freljord-blonde, her features were Zaunite, and her robes were Freljord White- their color for victory. But her gaze was distinctly Mayfield, and her eyes were alternating between the painting and a book in her arms.

"Small thorns and a large mouth," she declared.

Garen and Talon both turned to see they were being addressed. They had not learned to trust each other, but they trusted this woman less. An exchange of looks confirmed this.

"Tell him I said hi," she added. "Or don't."

Her book snapped shut over a red ribbon, saving the page, and she set it down on a table sturdier than its couch. She smiled, winked, and stepped into the sun's glare. Garen and Talon's eyes followed, and squinted in the mistake. When they looked again, she had vanished.

Strange. Familiar. The ribbon fell in to place in Garen's mind, and another clue struck Talon.

"'Shadow without a shadow?'"

He eyed Garen as if the question meant life or death.

Garen shrugged.

"I don't know. That's what he said. 'We were followed by a shadow without a shadow.'"

Talon nodded. "She _didn't_ have a shadow."

The moment was broken by Mayfield's arrival.

"This is inconvenient," he murmured. Garen and Talon were fast enough to catch him wiping blood from his hands as he entered.

"Someone's been warding our rooms. Talon, we have work to do. Garen. Summit. Go."

Mayfield left the conversation at that and turned to leave, but stopped mid-stride as if sensing something. His gaze turned to the painting, bringing Garen and Talon in tow. The woman in the painting had changed, and was now a smiling mockery of the woman they'd just seen. Mayfield's eyes fell from there to the book on the table.

He held the bookmark, the red ribbon, in a finger's caress before dropping it and continuing out. His only comment was an observation.

"Eevie's Rose," he murmured- The name of the book.

So Garen left for the summit, and finally had entries worth writing.

_December 14th, 5 CLE_

_Princess Mauvole rented out the entire second floor of our inn and moved her party in. Someone warded our rooms. Mayfield killed someone. A strange woman was in the lobby, but disappeared. Princess Mauvole's younger sister Lissandra is missing._

One of the younger sisters, from the middle ring of thrones, was missing on Mauvole's side.

And for the first time at the summit, the "Three Sisters" made a contribution to the discussion at hand. What had before been squabbles over who was holier than thou suddenly became a motion. Mauvole's posture had been especially rigid for the proceedings, and her sentences were short with her breath. But she sat up higher and held a steady tone to interrupt a dispute about the reverse bidding that taxes had become between Zaun and Piltover.

"The squabbles of your nations are no concern of ours."

Her words chilled speech for miles. But in the silence, she had drawn the curious attention of her sisters. Garen correctly anticipated Mayfield's appearance in the distraction. Mauvole set another record from the meeting when she added, "I motion to amend the Rune War Concordant."

Again, silence. Her two sisters were now leaning forward in their chairs, incredulous.

"Patience is the mark of divinity," Ashe sneered.

Sejuani scoffed. "Patience is easy when you _hoard_ resources like a_ boar_."

"Foresight," Ashe hissed, "is divine."

The two sisters turned to Mauvole, waiting for her to complete the ritual with a nasty remark of her own. She would not meet their glares, and instead stared forward and reiterated, "I motion to amend the Rune War Con-" she gasped, just loud enough for everyone to hear, but recovered and finished.

"Rune War Concordant."

The room was quiet enough for everyone to hear Mayfield whisper. But the words were directed into Garen's ear, so only he heard, "You second that motion."

The connection was easy to make. Mauvole was pushing Mayfield's agenda while her younger sister was missing. No amicable thing could be painted with those colors. But Garen didn't see a way out.

"Ha!" Sejuani.

"You dare propose a propose a motion without a full court?"

Her finger shot out to rudely point at the empty seat before Mauvole's throne. The reaction from the Freljordians in attendance was a bit odd to Garen- as if Mauvole was naked. Odd, but relieving.

"This is an international summit," Mauvole whispered. "The traditions of Freljord... shall not constrain... this attendance."

Her eyes avoided everyone in the room. Her face betrayed no emotion. But Sejuani was doing her best to evoke it.

"Can't control your own fam-"

"Shut up, pig breeder!" Ashe.

She turned the attention she had gathered back on Mauvole.

"Where is your sister? Where is Lissandra?"

Mauvole did not answer. She breathed, quick, short gasps that she tried to smooth out. And again, Mauvole repeated her motion.

"I propose an amendment... to the Rune War Concordant."

Sejuani had no interjection to save him now. Mayfield's whisper at his side carried a death sentence.

"What's the law on treason in Demacia?"

"I second," Garen called.

He did not enjoy the weight of so many glares. But Piltover's reaction saved him.

"Third. Without objection, we should bring Summit Resolution 320 to a vo-"

"Objection."

The Piltover ambassador swiveled on his heels to see Ashe, behind him.

"Debate and a full reading," she demanded.

Piltover sighed and turned back to his table. His eyes caught Mayfield's on the way, but only briefly. Garen assumed it was his imagination until the ambassador peeked up from his papers again. Mayfield shrugged.

"Fine," the Ambassador conceded. He raised the measure and read aloud for all to hear.

"Summit resolution three-hundred and twenty, First Amendment to the Rune War Concordant, for the purpose of deciding City-State membership in the International Community. Article One: City-State definition. A City-State is any entity which creates and enforces laws, levies duties, and maintains order amongst its people. Article Two-"

Ashe spoke again.

"I move to amend the measure. That definition is unacceptable. Any government which does not have the consent of its people or does not provide for their welfare shall have no seat at a table with mine, regardless of how orderly it is."

Her glare said her words were final.

Piltover sighed and caught Mayfield's eyes. Mayfield did something strange. No one but Garen caught that it was strange, but all eyes could have seen him. Mayfield turned from Piltover's question to the answers in his hand. A letter, in broken black wax and bleeding parchment. He skimmed the contents, then turned his glare up to Piltover. He shrugged.

"Without objection," Piltover called. His voice echoed, and none responded. "To the ledger: Article one is amended by striking the period and adding the following to the end: 'and provides for the general welfare, and has the consent of those it governs.'"

Piltover waited for Ashe to nod before continuing with his full reading. What an hour. A section would be read, and Ashe would contest it, and Mayfield would check his orders and shrug. But the more she spoke, the more Garen wondered exactly what divine authority she claimed. No to border enforcement. Insert treasury restrictions. No to voting restrictions. Insert non-human rights. No arms restrictions. No building codes. When she argued against taxes being necessary for a nation, Piltover had had enough.

"Come on! Even Zaun has taxes!"

"Fees," they grumbled.

And Mayfield did not shrug. His eyes grabbed Piltover. His head shook. She swallowed and spoke for him. It was then that Garen realized he had to make a choice.

"Where's Talon?" he whispered.

Mayfield's annoyed scowl rolled back to him.

"Volunteering at a home for the elderly. Oh, is it seven already? Never mind. He's probably working at the soup kitchen."

Mayfield did not have an accent for sarcasm. Or perhaps he answered unsatisfactory questions with unsatisfactory lies. Garen was able to lock his eyes, and unable to discern any uncertainty.

"Piltover and Noxus object! Is there a third to overrule?"

"That means you," Mayfield hissed.

The gravity of the situation had not struck Garen before. Here, he was expected to drastically change the lives of hundreds of thousands of strangers- to force upon them taxes, and to draw the ire of someone who might very well be a goddess. He wouldn't do it. Whatever Talon's excuses for extortion and kidnapping, he had not heard them, and doubted they would be correct.

"Do we have a third objection? Anyone?"

The desperation spilling out of Piltover was beginning to sully crowns.

"Obviously not," Ashe hummed.

Mayfield's scowl deepened.

"You can talk here, or you can explain to Laurent why you neglected your duties to Demacia."

Garen flipped his journal closed and stood from the table, sending Piltover beaming into relief.

"A third! Overtu-"

"No," Garen interrupted. "If I might be excused, I have to contact my home office."

Piltover's face fell to just short of horror.

"Not... no objection?"

Garen's departure was his answer.

He'd painted with Gold and White. He'd been heard.


	23. Waterfront

"Our Fortunes Rise and Fall Together."

When Katarina had first come to Zaun, as a child, the words had hung on the lips of every man at the bottom. The towers had risen on their backs, until the men at the top could hang the structures from the clouds, completing the mantra. But the land of Zaun was a land of change.

"Steam or Bleed." That mantra had hung above the gates to the land of change when Katarina returned for war. Profit Bay had become Killik Naval Yard. The luxury industries had collapsed, and from the ashes rose a bird of vengeance.

And now, Katarina was here again. Now she waded through a denser smog than before to see that the motto had been replaced for a third time. The archway to Killik Naval Yard had been removed, probably to make way for something. In its stead, hanging from the dock tower that Noxus' officers had commandeered, was a banner that hung several floors.

"Steam saves Blood," and the Hextech logo.

Katarina stopped to ponder it while a sea of faces moved around her on the sidewalk. The difference from before was only very slight, but she felt it was significant. An anonymous bump from the crowd taught her its meaning: No one is still before war. She crossed over the street and through the Naval Yard's gates, and began her kilometers long trek through the smog with that thought sullying her experience. The bandages over her eye had drawn too much pity at the city boundaries, so she had removed them, and subjected her itching wound to the smog. Her father's blade had widened the scar only a few days of travel ago.

The pain clawed at her mind. She hefted her duffel bag higher to breathe through it, almost missing what she had been meant to catch. An envelope fell from the top of her bag, cartwheeling in the air. She snatched it mid-flight with practiced ease- with restored depth-perception- and noted the seal. The bump and the letter were not anonymous. Both were sealed with a black rose. Two more were tucked into the bag's flap. Katarina pushed them in properly. She had a long walk through Noxus' newly raised army to think about it.

No soldier was sitting, as the last time she had visited. Drill Instructors shadowed and roared over the sound of thousands of sparring sessions. Platoons marched through and between each other with precision or punishment. Katarina knew her friend Riven was among them. She knew she would be among them soon. But first she had to check in. Her father's office was across the flat surface of the Naval Yard, and high atop the control tower.

But Zaun was a land of change. When she exited the elevator, the title on the door before her was Field Marshal. No name. Another door in the hallway was for High Summoner Sander Grieve. She had been expecting her father and General Hawkmoon. Her moment of shock was broken by an arcane, inhuman growl.

"First Lieutenant Katarina Du Couteau?"

The Field Marshall's office had two men guarding it. Green uniforms and golden heavy armor were not assigned to Noxus' soldiers. It wasn't until Katarina saw their helms that she realized who she was facing. Noxians did not wear Green, and men did not have four eyes. But the helms held four slits that glowed red with magics.

"_Captain_ Du Couteau," she corrected.

Both guardsmen nodded, and baleful smiles appeared below their masks. The other guard answered this time, in another voice that no human could produce.

"You can take that up with the Captain."

Katarina refused her fear the only way she knew how.

"You mean with the _Field Marshal_? I guess they don't teach big words to the dogs."

The smiles turned to scowls, and the guardsmen alternated their answers.

"He's Field Marshal to you, _regular_."

"And you're _nothing_ to us."

The guardsmen parted with tempered discipline and a resuming malice in their grins. One opened the door while the other prompted Katarina to enter.

"Don't keep him waiting, _dog_."

She passed into the office, and was mildly shocked when the two guardsmen joined her and stood within reach. She was more shocked by the man she'd come to see. Katarina had grown accustomed to men with magnanimous presence- she had grown up with it. But this man was not magnanimous. This man was terrifying. His form darkened the halo of Piltover's reflection across the bay. Her father had stood in the same spot a month ago and blocked out the sun. This man made it hide behind the expanding smog of Noxus. His presence cast a shadow of dark amber across all the land below him. He did not move, or smell, or sound like any normal creature. His every step was the death blow of a void daemon. His desk was the throne of a mad god. His glare was the soul-stealing gaze of monsters. It wasn't until he finally turned and smiled that Katarina felt she could breathe. She had seen that smile in the reflection of the elevator doors, and she showed it now, proving that she, too, was dangerous.

Then, remembering herself, Katarina set down her duffel bag and saluted.

"Captain Katarina Du Couteau, reporting for duty, sir."

The Field Marshall wore only one decoration on his uniform. Katarina wouldn't have recognized it, but she had just seen it on the guardsmen beside her. It was a unit marking, the image of the golden Raedsel helmet and its four, red eyes. Katarina swallowed hard as she realized whose presence she was in, and what manner of soldier she had just insulted.

After a long pause, Nirmal Raedsel answered,

"Captain. Yes. Hawkmoon mentioned your... _promotion_."

With the last word, his hand settled on a folder on the desk before him. Without opening it, he continued,

"I don't recognize royal privilege. And I don't recognize brevet ranks."

He waited for the thought to sink in to Katarina's shocked expression. Her father's jurisdiction did not allow him to promote her. He had assigned her a brevet rank, thinking that General Hawkmoon would assign her to a command platoon and keep her out of harm's way. But Hawkmoon was not here. The guardsmen on either side of her were chuckling, but the sound was of hungry dogs smelling fresh meat.

Her salute held. Raedsel had not reciprocated.

"Sir. If I may."

"Report for duty, First Lieutenant."

Katarina nodded.

"First Lieutenant Katarina Du Couteau, ready to serve."

She saw his posture relax into conversation, and he sat into his desk chair. Katarina tried her question again.

"Sir, I thought I would be reporting to Field Marshal Hawkmoon. Is he alright?"

"_General_ Hawkmoon was reassigned to naval affairs. I have resigned from my post as Captain of the Raedsel guard to take command of this force and ensure Noxus' victory. Now why did you arrive injured, soldier?"

The question drawled in casual, explanatory tone. Katarina had to take a moment to remember her not-yet healed scar.

"I'm fit for duty, sir."

"I just told you, you aren't," Raedsel growled.

His voice had no arcane augmentation. He didn't need it.

"There's a healer downstairs named Buri. Go to him."

He waved her dismissal, and the two guardsmen at her side saluted.

"Sir," she asserted. "Summoner Grieve is just down the hallway. He has healed me before."

The Field Marshal's glare was now hostile.

"You will not waste his time, and you will not waste mine. Now get this straight, princess. You are a blade of Noxus, and Noxus sharpens its weapons. Get with the program. Ferro."

He gestured, and one of the guardsmen tapped Katarina's shoulder. It was not a request. She saluted and pivoted with the guardsmen at her side. One stayed by the door.

The other guardsman, Ferro, did not speak again until they reached their unit. The 42nd had a rally point on the Naval Yard marked by it's standard- "42nd" on a black flag. The crates nearby were organized as tables, either for kit or wounded soldiers. One medical table had a poster on its side. The image of two soldiers: a Demacian using a civilian as a shield, and a Noxian shielding a civilian. The caption read, "Remember Kalamanda." It was here, at this medical table, that Katarina saw the summoner, Braxton Buri. And it was here that Ferro spoke, without his augmentation.

"Buri."

His calm tenor was for the summoner's benefit. Buri was hunched over a medical table, hands pressed against the gash in a man's torso. The flesh zipped closed with a relieved exhale, and the summoner turned to nod at them both. Ferro stepped forward and nodded for attention.

"Summoner, this is our newest Lieutenant, Katarina-"

"Du Couteau," the summoner mumbled. "We've met."

He was easily twice her age, and weary from the memory she surfaced in him. Katarina knew not to mention the scene at the embassy. Ferro spoke for her.

"Raedsel wants her fixed up. Where are my platoons?"

Buri paused to remember, "What company are you? Echo?"

Katarina nearly died on the spot. She wasn't Fury Company's Captain. It hadn't occurred to her to wonder who was.

"No. Fury," Ferro answered.

"They're still running, Captain."

Buri turned back to his crate-table and nudged the soldier that was laying there.

"Get up. You're healed."

The soldier groaned, "It still hurts, Staff-Major."

"Pain is an illusion. Get up."

The soldier removed himself, and Buri turned back to the conversation with a gesture to Katarina.

"Could have sworn that scar was healed when... So did it open itself? Any arcane after-effects?"

He licked his lips and tried to avoid thinking about the man that was beaten into Death's tender caress at the embassy. Katarina shook her head clear of the thought.

"No. Just- it..."

She didn't feel like telling everyone she had lost a fight, or revealing her family troubles.

"Mundane. It's a mundane wound."

Buri shrugged. A quick, arcane zap was all he needed.

"All better, Lieutenant. Anything else, Captain?"

"Yeah," Ferro grumbled.

The four eyes of his helm were peering through the masses of bodies filling the dockyard, not finding something he wanted.

"Would you mind keeping the Lieutenant company? I'd like to see what's taking so long."

Captain Ferro was out of earshot before Buri could nod. He sprinted with speed that Katarina had never expected from a human. It was only when his image disappeared behind the marching formation of the 15th Regulars that Katarina felt free to relax. It was only then that she realized how scared she had really been. She jumped to the side as a hand fell on her shoulder. Buri was there, a consoling expression offered her way.

"I would ask if you've got a tremor, but the Raedsel men take a little getting used to."

He smiled as Katarina sighed her shakes away.

"Why are they here, Buri- I mean, Staff Major? Is Darkwill here?"

She nodded sideways, to the rank on his lapels, as an apology. Buri shrugged the tongue-slip away.

"Noxus needs an army. War Veterans are the best men to raise one, but we don't have many left. There haven't been any real battles since Mogron or Del Garde. Few even remember those."

He sighed and leaned his weight back against the crates he had used for healing.

"So they re-drafted old codgers like me and brought in the Raedsel Guard."

He smiled as Katarina asked, "You're a veteran?"

"Yeah," Buri smiled. And with a nod to the poster beside him, he added, "You too. Kalamanda, right?"

He turned away from the conversation before Katarina could respond. The injured soldier had returned, this time clutching at his missing fingers.

"There are more vermin in the supplies, sir!"

Buri stared for a moment before answering, "So you stuck your fingers in them?"

He gestured for the soldier to come closer, then examined the wound long enough to tell that "we need to go get your fingers back. Lieutenant, would you?"

He nodded for Katarina to follow, and they took off at a jog, with the bleeding soldier at point. He gestured with the working hand towards the sound of scuffling, and Katarina approached a stack of crates with caution, Buri at her side.

The crate before them had its lid still attached. Blood was congealing around a scavengers hole where the soldier had no doubt been stupid enough to stick his hand in blind. Buri gestured at the lid, and took hold of one side. Katarina grabbed the other, fearing the scuffling inside and keeping her fingers tense.

Her eyes met Buri's. He nodded.

"Now."

They threw off the lid expecting the seven maws of hell, but a fox's head popped into the sunlight, scarlet blood scoring its white fur. Two fingers protruded from either side of its mouth, like a comic impression of Freljord's Walruses. Katarina made the connection instantly. This was the horrid critter that had bit her when she and Garen- she shook her head free of the memory, searching for another. This thing had been in Bilgewater when she and Garen- Katarina bit her cheek to suppress it again. In any case, this vermin was a bad omen.

Buri sighed across from her over the crate.

"Nine Tails," he murmured.

"Sacred vermin. This'll be easy. They like shiny things. I had to handle an infestation when I lived in Ionia."

He summoned some currency from his pocket while Katarina stepped back with mild awe.

"Wow," she murmured.

Buri glanced up, nearly getting caught as the fox pawed at his hand.

"What?"

He grinned as the fox turned from murderous to playful, and dropped its finger snacks to try and steal his coins. Katarina shrugged, bemused.

"Well... you're a Veteran, a Summoner, a Forensic specialist, a Historian, a Fox charmer... Is there anything you haven't done?"

Her smile fell with his. Buri nodded, focusing on his distracted prey as it lunged up to him from the ground. He had drawn it out of the box, and was leading it to the waterfront. A stiff drop and no access would drown the problem.

It was as he reached the edge that he answered,

"Yeah. I never killed anyone. And I never requited my love."

Katarina glanced up from the dancing fox to see if Buri was joking.

"Love?"

She saw him smile as his eyes trailed toward the water. A splash confirmed his kill.

"Too late now. We're at war."

And then his tone changed with the subject.

"You know, Nine-Tails are sacred in Ionia. But they say that when a fox tastes human blood, it can't get enough. It turns evil."

Katarina followed his gaze into the water, and watched as the fox surfaced. It paddled around in a circle, looking for land, and set off down the harbor when it found none. Watching it move, she realized that the tides were not lonely for it. The tiny waves brought up by wind had blown other debris against the paved wall of the Naval Yard. Other foxes had fallen to similar fates at Buri's tricks. Their corpses danced, locked together in harmony with the ocean's tune against the wall.

"Thousands of the damn things," Buri mumbled. "They keep coming from inland. Maybe they smell something on the wind."

The sound of a horn's call drew them away from the lapping waves, and back to the movements of the yard. Several platoons were arriving exhausted and panting under the 42nd's banner. Katarina picked out her friend Riven at the lead of one formation instantly. She was spry, but still worn and sweating. Ferro looked like he'd just won a cheap battle. The horn lowered from his lips, and he waved for Katarina and Buri to join him. Buri was grinning.

"I didn't mention," he murmured.

"The Raedsel men have an interesting initiation process."

Katarina arrived in time to straighten her uniform and approach Ferro from behind. He was addressing the platoons that had just arrived. Most of the soldiers were catching their breath still, but there seemed to be an unspoken rule against slouching or sitting. Ferro's voice called out to those gathered like the horn had.

"The modern soldier is not a tank! He is an endurance runner. He is a machine that does not stop to sleep, eat, drink, or piss. He does not need encouragement. He does not need a reason to fight beyond orders. Allow me to state again: He is a machine!"

Ferro took a brief respite from his spiel to glance at Katarina.

"In a moment, Lieutenant."

He turned back to the recovering soldiers and paced across them.

"An Ionian swordsman doesn't give a damn how heavy you are. A rifleman could care less how much you can lift. A martial artist will never find out how hard you can punch. The goal of this army is speed and efficiency. Wars are ex-pen-sive. The faster we're done, the faster we come home. Do you all understand? By the time we get on those boats, we should be a speedy machine!"

Ferro sighed.

"So it is with great distaste..."

Katarina could tell by the soldiers' reactions that they had known Ferro for a while. Their faces fell as his words came.

"It is with great distaste that I award Riven her new weapon. Step forward, Lieutenant!"

Katarina hesitated a moment before realizing that he hadn't addressed her. Riven stepped forward, the sun catching on her smile and new rank insignias. Zaun was truly a land of change.

Ferro stepped back to the nearest crate, a double-wide box, and kicked its top off. The faces around him were lit up with bemused excitement as he reached in and produced the most obnoxiously large weapon Katarina had ever seen.

"Two meters long crafted with three Quintessences of Desolation in the blade. The primary material is Ironspike Obsidian, with a thickness of one molecule on the blade's edge. Oh. And check this out."

Ferro tossed the sword to Riven with a single hand. Its immense weight soared just like the weapon it was. Katarina was more worried by how easily Riven arrested its motion. When her fingers secured a grip, the arcane marks of the quintessences lit up along the blade. Arcane, green mist lifted out of the obsidian to illuminate Riven's manic grin. Ferro's mouth was a happy snarl.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant. You are now in possession of the finest weapon ever crafted. You can show it off later. Third Platoon! You have a new recruit."

Ferro nodded in the Platoon's direction, and the men nodded back, their weight shifting in interest. Katarina did not need to straighten her posture further. She held their glares, and felt her scar itch under the attention. The general emotion was the anticipation of an inside joke- all but Riven and her suddenly apparent worry. Katarina caught her eyes long enough to shoot a questioning look, but Ferro had her attention before Riven could respond.

Katarina took a step back as Ferro turned to her. Somewhere in his throw to Riven, he had drawn his own broadsword.

"Weapon ready, Lieutenant," he called.

Katarina's hands fell to her sides.

"What?"

"Weapon ready," Ferro repeated.

"No man serves under Captain Raedsel's watch until they can draw blood against him. The same goes for you and me."

His broadsword raised to point at her.

"You don't have to beat me, Lieutenant. Just draw blood. Now last warning. Arm yourself."

Katarina had not brought a sword. She had several daggers concealed on her body, but none of them were regulation.

"What if I'm unarmed?"

The pleading in her voice was heavier than she had intended. Ferro's snarling smile returned below his helm.

"You die."

He lunged. Katarina ducked and rolled to her side, rising with a dagger in either hand. But she had to move before she could use them. Ferro was always advancing, always striking. She lost a dagger and dodged for more room, but the 42nd standard had formed an arena by their attendance. Katarina reached for another dagger with more lore than survival on her mind.

She had heard stories about the Raedsel guard. They were supposed to be Boram Darkwill's bodyguards. She had heard that each recruit had to draw blood against their captain or die. She hadn't thought that was true, though. Had Riven already fought him and won?

Katarina ducked a swipe at her throat, cutting her hair in the process. She flicked a dagger, thinking Ferro exposed after his strike, but cursed herself when the blade ricocheted off of his gauntlet. She had three left.

"Nice effort though," Ferro chided. His next blow sent her rolling backwards. Katarina landed on her feet and brought two daggers to the ready, lowering herself finally into a proper stance for fighting. The dagger by Ferro's feet had blood on it- hers. Katarina hadn't realized it at first, but she would need to wash her uniform later- if she lived. There was another dagger between her and Ferro. Katarina could tell by the handle that it was the blade she had concealed behind her waist. Blood trickled from it, and her back, to the ground. With two daggers and some blood left, Katarina found herself realizing the trouble she was in. What would Cassie do?

"This is ridiculous! Wait! Can't we settle my rank without killing each other?"

Her tone remained assertive and level, but Ferro's patronizing response made everyone forget that.

"Welcome to war, princess!"

Another lunge. Another dagger lost under powerful blows. Ferro's off-hand had remained behind his back until now, a gesture Katarina mistook for traditional fencing. With a single knife left to her, Katarina's options had fallen to a last ditch effort. She could no longer win by crossing blades. A swift cartwheel carried her around the circle of observers, and kept her just out of Ferro's reach. She landed on her feet with the desperate hope that he would give her room. If she could get her momentum forward, she could Shunpo. She would win and show everyone just how deadly she could be. She just had to draw blood. But Ferro was charging. And all she had left was her ability to throw. But as her hand cocked back, Ferro's off-hand appeared. The cutting pain of realization overwhelmed the feeling in her raised wrist.

She wasn't the only person who could toss a dagger. Sliced tendons dropped her last weapon to her feet, and the slicing edge of Ferro's broadsword sealed her fate. Katarina felt steel pierce her kidney and slide out her back. The hilt pressed against her skin, and the flex of his arm pulled the blade up. Katarina was only fast enough to grab his wrist with her remaining hand and hold herself up. She could only vocalize a scream. Through the scream, she heard a voice speak for her, just as desperate and scared as she was.

"Captain!"

Riven stepped forward, her eyes pleading and hands gripping a sword that asked no questions. But Ferro held Katarina's gaze.

"You've got one hand and no weapons, _sergeant_."

His off-hand grabbed her shoulder, pressing her down and dragging the blade against her organs. But she held, pressing against his wrist to stay alive.

"You should surrender," was his last advice.

But Katarina did have one more weapon. And she was thankful to have sparred with her step-brother, Talon. Her wrist flicked against Ferro's grip, launching the vambrace she'd hidden in her uniform into his skin, and slicing tendons in beautiful retribution. His grip failed instantly, and Katarina fell to the ground with the Captain's weapon still sheathed in her gut. Ferro's hand raised to show her victory, and they both smiled through the pain.

Katarina had never heard applause in ballet, in poetry, or in any of the subjects at which her sister excelled. But she heard it now. And the sound carried and echoed into the following two weeks. Her wounds healed under Staff-Major Braxton Buri's care; the solitude of the Du Couteau estate gave way to Riven's company and the Summoner's tales about Ionia. Zaun was becoming the home she'd never had. She would rise and fall in darkness, always seeing the city's haze glow golden in the rising sun while her platoon ran the perimeter; always seeing the smog fade to blue as it muddied the stars over their formations. The weeks and their work did not pass quickly. But the bond Katarina felt with the men and women around her grew closer than she had ever been with strangers. She had learned everything about Riven's childhood as they drifted to sleep in their bunk beds. She had learned about Ionia's flora and fauna during healing breaks between combat drills. She had wondered where Swain and her father were.

On the evening of the third week, her mind finally cleared of the past. A sheen of sweat pearled over her skin and lit up under the occasional Hextech lamppost. A steady jog kept the light stations coming every few seconds. Riven was panting at her side, breasts wrapped tight against her chest, muscles tensing in feminine grace as she bobbed through the night. Katarina's jealousy had driven her through every exercise. Riven glanced her way suddenly, noticing the attention.

"What?"

She smiled it.

Katarina shook her head.

"Nothing."

The occurrence was too common for that excuse to keep up, but Katarina had no intention of admitting her insecurities. The jog ended and another of the endless briefings began. Ferro had dragged out a chalk board and propped it up against some supply crates while Fury company gathered around. Katarina was still eying Riven with contempt when she heard her name called.

"Sir?"

"Our designation, Lieutenant."

She could never read his expression through the Raedsel helm. His mouth remained an unimpressed line.

"Light Infantry, sir," she called back.

Ferro nodded, satisfied, and pointed to Riven.

"Fury company has four divisions. What are they?"

"Sir. Platoons One, Two, Three, and a command element."

Riven's posture relaxed as Ferro nodded.

"Correct, Lieutenants. Four squadrons of eight per platoon. How many fire teams do you have?"

He pointed out to first platoon.

"Eight fireteams. Thirthy-six men, sir."

"Excellent. We've got this down. Moving on! Tonight we're learning about some equipment that's new to this war. Ionia is a land of hills with runes in 'em. We can expect our ward systems to fail hard and often. To counter this problem, we will be using flares as a secondary method of communication."

Here he turned around to retrieve one from a supply crate. Katarina's lost attention drifted towards her envy again, but was caught. Riven was already watching her.

"Lieutenant!"

Ferro's gaze had caught Riven first. Her posture straightened under his reprimand.

"Pay attention! This might save your life."

Ferro held up the flare, a small cylinder with a Hextech logo on the side and a string on the bottom.

"For those of you familiar with Hextech sparklers, this works the same way. Point it up and pull the string, like so."

Ferro jerked the string, removing a cap from the bottom. The toy reported like a rifle, and a green sparkler shot up to the heavens, pulsing bright and reporting with a bang every few seconds. Katarina remembered little of the technical explanations that followed. Don't get it wet. Don't look directly at it. Don't point it at your face. Pull the string; make the sparkles. Her father had bought two when the Hextech corporation had first invented them. She and Cassie had launched one each from home. That thought sullied her night until the hour she finally reached a bunk.

The officers quarters were separated by sex. Katarina kept that in mind as she followed a male's footsteps through the shadows to the bunk she shared with Riven. She was at Katarina's side, peering through the unlit room to what was definitely a man. To them, he was just a shadow rummaging through Katarina's trunk, at the foot of the bunk beds. Katarina could see a Noxian trench coat covering his frame, and the shadow of a second person standing behind him. Her eyes focused, thinking it was an illusion of the dark, but it refused to disappear.

She and Riven had been panting before, but they cut their breathing until they couldn't hear each other over the sound of their own hearts. Katarina checked Riven's face for the certainty she needed. A nod back confirmed, and Riven moved to flank the strangers. Katarina scooted forward another bed through the shadows, swift and silent. The intruder seemed to find what he was looking for. His posture shifted to satisfaction, and shifted again to remove a parcel from his cloak. Enough moonlight was peering through Zaun's smog and the windows to illuminate the seal of a black rose on the package- enough for Katarina to realize who was before her. The image of his face in her father's house appeared- the thought of him murdering the ambassador in the vilest of ways. This was the man Talon had been sent with to Freljord. Lieutenant Mayfield. Katarina wasn't sure if she felt fear or anger.

Either way, Mayfield felt her presence. His head tilted up suddenly, as if knowing he was in her thoughts. The shadow behind him vanished just as he turned to look at it, and then his ear tilted towards Riven, to the sound of her finger against a switch. Hextech lamps blazed to life around the room. But his silhouette lingered in darkness for a moment too long. Katarina hesitated at the sight, but blinked away the illusion as his face appeared.

_Now or never,_ was all she had time to think.

Mayfield jumped to his feet and sprinted for the window, but Riven intercepted him, swinging the hammer of her fists. With their contact as a fulcrum, his feet swung up behind her, and locked around Riven's neck. He grabbed her arms and rolled, using their combined momentum to flip Riven forward and land her on her back. His arms reached to secure her neck, to snap it, and Katarina charged in without a moment's thought.

But the assassin's speed appeared again. Abandoning the kill, his feet planted, and he drew a dagger from behind his waist just as she did. Katarina hated a fair fight about as much as she hated being watched. Thanking the gods that had passed the art of Shunpo on to humanity, she stepped like a flash, and left only smoke in her wake. Mayfield's eyes flashed wide, and his head swiveled just in time for Katarina to admire the surprise she'd inspired. Descending with a blade to his back, she felt the thrill of the ambush Garen had escaped. Her opponent had similar intentions. With his eyes still wide, he flashed a smirk and vanished. Katarina felt what she feared and swiveled her head to check. Their places had switched.

Katarina sprung forward and turned, seeing the hilt of Mayfield's dagger jab at where her neck had been. So he wasn't playing to kill. Katarina was now at Riven's side. She had a knee floored, and was about to rise when Mayfield drew another weapon. This was a revolver, with another Hetxtech logo in the city they owned. Riven froze under its attention.

"Stay out of this, sweetie. You're expendable."

The patronizing tone did not have its intended effect. Riven scowled, biding her time while Mayfield paced his way to the window, weapon on Riven and eyes locked with Katarina. As another bunk bed passed between them, Katarina shot her friend a glance. Riven understood, and dashed to cover, dodging the spark and report of a bullet. Mayfield seemed unfazed now that his back was to the window.

"You've got mail in your box," he murmured.

Katarina saw his weight shifting back against the window sill. His voice continued.

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, and assume you lost the last few letters. Make sure this set gets read."

The revolver returned to his cloak, and his weight shifted farther back. But Katarina's scowl stopped him.

"I don't feel like doing your dirty work," she spat.

Riven had disappeared from her senses. Katarina knew she was in earshot though. She would have to explain this. Mayfield's reaction was bemused. His weight shifted back forwards, into the room, and he advanced on her a few steps. Katarina readied her stance again, hoping Riven was closer than just earshot. But Mayfield stopped just out of her reach, and whispered so only she could hear.

"Transcendence is not refused."

Katarina did not afford him the same discreteness.

"_Try me_," she hissed.

Mayfield sighed, a mix of disgust and annoyance.

"It will _interest_ you," he growled.

"I'm going to burn it," she growled back.

Mayfield's jaw seemed locked onto words he didn't want to use. Katarina wasn't thinking of using words at all. Nothing he could say would make her consider following the path of whoever had selected the ambassador's death. She shifted to her back foot, ready to spring and attack, and Mayfield took his opportunity to stop her in her place.

"Garen Crownguard wrote one... to you."

Katarina hesitated. In that moment, Riven sprang from her cover, surprisingly close to Mayfield. He had no time to react as her fist slammed into his stomach, percussing his lungs and tossing him through the open window. Katarina ran to Riven's side, peering through the window to catch a view of the bastard falling. But he had landed on his feet, revolver drawn. Perimeter guards were already rushing to meet him, but they could only fight what they could see. A bullet to the nearest Hextech lamppost cast two deep shadows onto the dockyard. The same uncertain thing that Katarina had seen before was now back at Mayfield's side. Her eyes refocused as Mayfield's silhouette turned to their window, and she realized with a pang of fear what he was doing.

"Duck!"

She pulled Riven back in time to avoid the next shot, which splintered the wood where Riven's head had been. They fell to the floor together, panting and reeling from the adrenaline. But Katarina couldn't stay down. She found her feet and stumbled to the trunk, leaving Riven panting on the floor. Mayfield's parcels were there waiting for her, all tied together with a steel cord made for throats, and tied with a slip knot. The first three were all for Sander Grieve. The last, a leather-bound book, had no address on it.

"Hey, Kat."

Riven's voice went ignored. Katarina flipped the book open and read the first entry to herself.

_December 1st, 5 CLE_

_I recognize "Mayfield" from the embassy in Bilgewater. He killed the Noxian ambassador. General Laurent and I rescued him. Talon appears to be a Noxian himself, but has expressed no allegiance._

_Our equipment includes Zaunite craftsmanship, but was delivered by a Demacian quartermaster. Our orders are delivered to Mayfield in envelopes sealed by black roses. Their contents are shared only by Mayfield's mouth. Talon knows me by some fame. Mayfield knows more. By virtue of knowledge, he is in charge._

"Katie."

Riven's voice was shaking. Katarina turned to see that her outstretched arm was as well. Riven had propped herself up against the wall, and was watching as the combat high receded from her body.

"I've never been in a fight before," she confided.

"So?"

"Were you like this after Kalamanda?"

Riven's eyes twitched and darted over the arm she couldn't control.

Katarina turned back to her diary, furious that it didn't interest her, and wanting to read more, to find what would. But she couldn't do it here- not with Riven.

"What did he mean about Garen Crownguard?"

"I don't know," Katarina lied.

"And no," she lied again.

Riven swallowed her excitement and smiled. The survival giggles were coming on.

"We sure showed him, huh?"

Katarina bared her teeth in an attempt to reciprocate the smile.

"Yeah, Riv. We got him good."

But her sarcasm was lost on the younger girl. And her will to spite was lost as she realized the look Riven was giving her.

"Thanks," Riven whispered.

Katarina blinked it over a few times.

"Thanks for saving me, I mean."

Riven smiled; she meant it. Katarina nodded, and returned the parcels to her trunk.

The next day began at Sander Grieve's office, an hour before she would rise for drills. He answered her knock with the same, perpetual weariness that he always had, and the same unnatural energy behind it. She still hadn't learned to trust the youthful face he'd bought in Kalamanda.

"Hey, toots."

The accent was a parody of Zaun. He dropped it for his greeting.

"Seriously, though. I'm glad to see you made it out of Kalamanda."

"You pitted me against a summoner," Katarina grimaced.

Grieve shrugged as he accepted the letters from her.

"Nothing you couldn't handle."

He waved the letters.

"I guess this means you've met Mayfield properly."

Katarina was silent, so Grieve opened the letters.

"Charming guy, I know," he filled in. His eyes scanned the first letter for a second before he added,

"Quick learner, too. I think he forged this. Missing an arcane signature. He's blunt, like you. No magic."

He tossed the letter aside, and it immolated before gracing the floor.

"Don't go yet, Kat. I love your company."

His words stopped her from turning. In her tired stupor, she hadn't noticed his mind reading hers. A focused effort corrected that. Grieve winked. She feigned a scowl.

"I have some papers for you to incinerate," he explained.

Katarina's eyes turned to the air where the falling letter had been. But Grieve's hand waved and caught her attention. He pressed a finger to his lips, and then to his ear. Katarina's eyes darted over the room, expecting to see whatever wards were hidden nearby. The futility struck her, and she nodded back to Grieve. He handed her a pile of papers, and waited for her to turn away before mumbling, "oh."

Katarina turned back to him.

"This, too. Be sure and use the elevator. It's much more convenient than stairs."

Grieve slapped a folder on top of her stack- address: Field Marshal Raedsel.

She nodded, understanding, and finally left. The incinerators were at the bottom of the tower. And Grieve had been very clear about the one place that wasn't warded. As soon as the elevator doors secured her, she flipped open Raedsel's briefing and crossed the line of treason.

**Operation Thorn**

_The Black Rose agent "Mayfield" is being upgraded to a high-priority target after a JOJ announcement that "Mayfield is loyal. Begin Phase One." Subject was spotted in Freljord, due to anonymous tip. Agents assigned to follow were spotted and killed in unarmed combat. We have switched to indirect observation, and are now tracking Black Rose agents supporting Mayfield._

Katarina was not a fast reader. The elevator slowed to a stop, and she flipped through several pages, hoping to see words highlighted for her convenience. Sander Grieve had wanted her to see this report before she destroyed it. He had risked both of their deaths for it. The last page held the shortest topic, so she skimmed it.

**Conclusion**

_Only two Black Rose agents, "Scarlet" and "Gold," have survived the selection program against Mayfield. They have been designated as his handlers. Neither has been identified yet, but, as noted in another report, intercepted letters indicate that "Gold" is a Demacian and "Scarlet" is a Noxian **within the military**. Rank unknown. Neutralization of "Scarlet" and "Mayfield" is now the top priority of Operation Thorn._

The doors opened, and Katarina flipped the envelope closed. She had understood few of the words, but most of the meaning. The rest of her day was spent contemplating the strange hue of turquoise that the report burned. It wasn't until midday that Riven finally snapped her out of it. They were squatting together, back to back. The team exercise involved more weight than Katarina had ever carried on her own, and the stress was demanding her concentration. Riven was just starting to break a sweat. Her head turned to talk over her shoulder.

"Did you file your report?"

Katarina leveled her breathing before responding, "What?"

"Your report. About last night. I already did."

Katarina laughed through her breathing.

"Must have slipped my mind."

Her legs felt like the papers. But she couldn't look weak with Riven beside her. She wouldn't. Riven didn't even have parents. She couldn't be stronger.

"Hey, Kat."

"What?"

Her impatience revealed more than she'd hoped. But Riven's hesitation was internal.

"I just wanted to say... thanks, again. You saved my life."

"Break!"

Katarina knew she would never meet an angel, even a fallen angel, but Ferro's voice was close enough sometimes.

She pressed off of Riven's back and stood, stretching her legs out, feeling the pain get its last stabs in before recovering.

"Three more sets, kids! Ionian's have a fascination with powers of two! They do thirty-two, and we do sixty-four. We will be a speedy... Damnit, Riven! Why don't you look dead?"

Riven smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry, sir."

"Second Platoon! Look at your CO! Is she doing something differently? You all look like you've been working harder. Is that the case?"

The men appeared more embarrassed than sheepish.

"No, sir," one of them moaned.

The ensuing condemnations were issued during the next two sets. Katarina felt her envy growing with every second that Riven's face did not break. Was she better at putting on a show? Was she really that much stronger? Katarina remembered the greatsword that Riven had been awarded, and the stories she told about wrestling cows on her adopted family's farm. It was possible, she decided. But it was not her pedigree. Katarina would not lose.

"Lieutenant!"

Ferro's voice was unhappy. The difference in tone was very slight, but Katarina had learned to recognize it. She looked his way to see an aide from headquarters standing by him.

"You've got a summons. Go see Raedsel. Riven, I'll take her spot."

The exchange was quick, and Riven finally had a worthy match at her back. Katarina heard "We're holding this one until Riven or I break!" before falling out of earshot.

But she had not been spared. She knew that as soon as the office door closed behind her. Nirmal Raedsel was seated, his reading glasses and anger in place. His introduction interrupted her salute.

"There should be five reports sitting before me. I see four."

Katarina knew she could not lie convincingly, and that honesty meant death.

"I do not have your perception, sir."

His glare shot up to her before she had finished.

"Bullshit, Couteau!"

Raedsel rose from his chair, broadsword unsheathed and singing from the sudden motion.

"Draw your weapon," was his only warning as he circled the desk.

Katarina cursed herself quietly. She had left her sword and kit in the field. He would kill her just for that.

"I burned it," she admitted.

"Grieve told you to. I know. Raise your weapon."

Katarina could not afford to choke on her next question, so she forced it through and yelled,

"Then why do I have to duel you?"

Her desperation sickened Raedsel's expression.

"Do you know why I came here, Couteau? Because I know who needs to rule this nation right now. There is no man better suited for the job than Boram Darkwill. We came to a disagreement about who to trust, and that left me with two options. Step up, or step down."

His blade extended- an accusation.

"You burned those documents because you think you know better than I do about what should reach my desk. Now prove it."

Shunpo, flash stepping, is the skill whereby a person travels large distances with highly efficient, and therefore fast, motions. Katarina hard heard it called a skill. When Nirmal charged, she realized it was an art form. Her dodge left some blood behind. His second strike scraped her before it had fallen, and his third took both of her weapons, slashed her palms, and pinned her shoulder to the wall.

She grunted to suppress a shriek. The sword would not remove itself, and she couldn't get proper leverage.

"Usually I would cut out your tongue," Raedsel growled. Katarina was pinned too low to see his face. From her vantage point, she could only note that the four, red eyes on his unit insignia would fluctuate with his voice.

"But I need to know what that report said."

Nirmal pulled the visitor's chair away from his desk and straddled it backwards to face her. His sword was left pinning her flesh to the bookshelf behind her.

"Take your time," he egged. "I'm not the one bleeding."

"I didn't read all of it," she admitted.

"Then tell me what you did read, _Scarlet_."

His words connected with the name on the briefing, and Katarina realized with a start what the words around it meant.

"What?"

"Scarlet. That's your codename, right? You're one of LeBlanc's thugs."

Nirmal Raedsel was not a man who joked. Just days prior, Katarina had been worried about possibly fighting a group of assassins that played on rumors about secret societies. Now she was realizing that the stories had the merit of Raedsel's faith.

"No! LeB- what? LeBlanc? She's a myth! She's dead! Or she never existed!"

Katarina grabbed the blade in her shoulder and tugged. The wood shelf behind her wouldn't ease its grip though. She grunted and tried to adjust her feet beneath her while Raedsel folded his hands in patience.

"Then you're a fool, as well," Raedsel mumbled. He reached for one of the four folders on his desk, and tossed a photograph from it to Katarina's feet. She had seen that face published in a Hextech tabloid before. And here it was having tea with Captain Swain.

"Yesterday," Raedsel mumbled. "After six hundred years of 'being a myth.'"

"That's impossible," Katarina whispered.

"That's..." Boram Darkwill's age flashed before her mind.

"She's younger than the Grand General," Raedsel supplied. "And she'll probably live a lot longer than you."

"Sir. I..."

Pleading would get her nowhere, and he had little reason to believe her words.

"I don't know LeBlanc, and I don't work for the Black Rose. I just want what's best for Noxus. I want to make sure Kalamanda never happens again. I burned those papers because I thought Grieve knew better than me what to do with them. I was just following orders."

If only Riven could see her now, cowering and kowtowing to men with sharper swords. Katarina would never fail again without seeing her secret rival's physique overcoming all odds. Quite possibly, she would never fail again. Raedsel stood from his chair and straightened his uniform.

"An idealist," he groaned.

"Tell me, then. What is best for Noxus? The Monarchy, or the Meritocracy?"

Raedsel's unit marking carried a steady pulse when he was silent. The eyes would glow just bright enough to reflect on the badge's gold before dimming to darkness and rising again. Katarina had no idea how to answer.

"I- I don't know," she stuttered. "I thought we don't have a monarchy anymore."

Raedsel stood and kicked his chair away.

"And don't you forget it! We are a meritocracy: a nation of virtues that must be upheld. Enemies to that cause are enemies of virtue itself!"

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. A quick twist of the wrist would carry along the blade and through her shoulder. Katarina watched it with the growing trepidation of the pain she was about to feel. His words were muted behind that fear, but the growl of his voice supplanted all other thought.

"Make a choice now, Katarina. Pick a side. Do you think the people of this nation should be held as slaves and traded to new masters on heredity?"

Well when you phrase it that way, "No."

"Then tell me," he growled. "What was in that briefing?"

"I don't know," she whimpered. "I just burned it sir."

Cassie had insisted that this would work in even the most dire of cases. Raedsel twisted his sword, and Katarina learned that her sister was wrong.

"Mayfield! Scarlet and Gold and Mayfield! They're going to kill those three! But I'm not Scarlet! Mayfield is my enemy! He killed the ambassador in Bilgewater!"

She waited in Raedsel's indecision. He contemplated her words, or something, before answering,

"You don't have the heart of a soldier. You don't belong in the regulars."

His tone betrayed no meaning to his thoughts. But his sword jerked free from her shoulder, knocking a book loose from the shelf.

"Get up," he mumbled. His off-hand was reaching for a handkerchief to clean his blade.

"We're going to duel again. This time, one of us is going to die."

He and Katarina both knew who. She wasn't dumb enough to accept a fair fight.

"I'm not your enemy," was her answer. And as she pondered a way to prove that, her eyes fell to the book that had fallen.

_Io- ni- an Fer-vor._ Ionian Fervor.

Talon had read one of the fables aloud to her and Cassie. If she could read, she would have finished the story herself. An entire night she had sat up thinking over the passage in her head.

"I'm not your enemy," she repeated. "So I cannot raise my weapons against you. But if you believe that I mean you harm, sir, then order me to throw myself on my blade, and I will."

Or it went something like that. Raedsel had frozen with his sword almost clean, handkerchief at the tip.

"Hmm," he finally grunted. And his eyes fell to hers.

"I won't pretend to understand an assassin's virtues. But I suppose I can recognize them."

His blade sheathed, and Raedsel resumed the chair at his desk. He busied himself for a moment with signing an order, then replaced his reading glasses and began reading through one of the four briefings. It was only when Katarina began testing her injured arm that his glare shot up to her and he scolded, "That wasn't an invitation to stay."

She didn't.

Thank the gods it was Friday. Katarina could not stop shaking. Twice that day, she had been in mortal peril. All of this due to the political vagaries that she ignored. Politics, it seemed, would not ignore her. Even here, in the center of a Zaunite pub, she felt the eyes of Noxus upon her. A slurred glance over her shoulder led to the hooded stare of a stranger across the bar. A lock of scarlet hair fell loose and blocked her view. And by the time her hands had fumbled it away, the man had disappeared.

"Aren't you supposed to have a buddy?"

Katarina swiveled around on an uneasy axis to see Riven taking the stool beside her.

"Yeah," Katarina mumbled. "Oops."

She had three shots of Whiskey left before her. But her vision corrected to two, and she took one.

As her head came down, she heard Riven smack the third against the bar, empty. Katarina only stared as Riven coughed up the fumes of her first drink- first ever. When her composure returned, she giggled at Katarina's expression.

"Something troubling you?"

Katarina ran her tongue over her lips, enjoying the numbness. The shaking in her hands had subsided, but now Runeterra was swaying on its heels. Katarina nodded without explanation, and Riven's mouth fell to a frown.

"Is it... is it about the break in?"

Three more shots appeared before them. With a slight delay to aim, Katarina's hand reached out and grabbed at where one had just been. Riven finished it while Katarina wondered if her hand was going numb. She glared at her friend, demanding an explanation. Riven only smiled, nervous.

"That's what buddies are for, right? I can't let you get too drunk. The weekend's only started."

Katarina sighed, her lips flapping without control, and buried her head in her hands. But Riven seemed determined to not let her slink away into solitude. Here she was, nervously stealing Katarina's drinks and bothering her. Katarina felt Riven's arm nudge against hers.

"Hey. We should probably get out of here before someone catches us. I'd rather not get guard duty."

Katarina nodded, remembering that there were rules she was expected to live by now- more rules than just her father's. Katarina lifted her satchel from the floor. Garen's diary was within. She was still too sober to read it.

Riven guided her walk out the pub and into the Hextech maze of Zaun. The city stretched around them into the sky, with lights flickering high enough above them to replace the stars the smog hid. Katarina might have lost her balance in her gaze without Riven there. She followed the tug on her arm as Riven began guiding them back to the yard. This was getting useful, if humiliating. Katarina had never been there for Riven. It was always this younger, stronger, more attractive girl picking up for her.

"Thanks for saving me," Riven whispered.

Her voice had dropped to a more sheepish tone, quieter to hide the shaking. Or maybe the shots were starting in on her. Why was she nervous? Katarina nodded, amending her last thought. Now what was she supposed to be upset about? Riven's arm guided her into an alleyway. The shortcut was taking them to Hextech Avenue, to the gates of Killik.

"I still remember that pirouette you did in ballet class."

Riven's words were a muted mumble in Katarina's head, but the meaning shone clear. Was Riven... ?

"I looked up to you a lot back then. My parents were away making preparations in Zaun, so I really had you as a role model. And you were always nice to me."

Riven laughed. Katarina had little memory of her or their friendship. Her focus had always been competing with Cassie.

"Glad I could help," she mumbled.

Riven stopped suddenly, her eyes hesitating on the avenue ahead of them.

"Hey, Kat?"

Katarina's gaze slurred to her direction.

"Yeah?"

"I..."

Riven gulped and scoffed at herself.

"Oh gosh. I... I don't... I don't know how to say this."

Riven's breathing deepened as she took the air she needed.

"Should've had more drinks," she finally whispered.

Katarina remained silent and bemused.

"Ok. I um... I came out here looking for you because I wanted to talk to you."

"Ok," Katarina nodded.

"In private," Riven added.

Katarina nodded. A cat hissed nearby, and engaged in a battle of wills with a nine-tailed fox. The fox retreated, and the cat remained to rummage through a trash bin. Katarina's eyes fell back to Riven, and she realized with a shock that she had the girl's full and undivided attention. Also, Riven was about two inches taller. Katarina straightened her posture, trying to make up the difference.

"I guess this is as much privacy as we can get," she finally answered.

Riven's eyes focused into a question.

"What?"

"Nothing. Go ahead," Katarina murmured.

Another dose of conspiracy couldn't do much more harm than it already had. But Riven's worry seemed slightly different.

She swallowed again, her chest heaving under breathing she was struggling to control.

"Ok. I... I... Sorry. I'm just really nervous. I mean- maybe I shouldn't."

Her head shook.

"Sorry. Just- we should go home."

But her turn was stopped by Katarina's arm. If the girl needed encouragement, she was about to get it.

"Riven, just-"

And she did.

Katarina felt lips press against hers, and hands holding her waist, and all the attention that Riven could give holding her in place. Her lips parted to speak, and she found herself entangled in a dialogue. Maybe it was because she wanted attention, or to have the girl she thought of so highly be so enamored with her. Maybe it was a confirmation of the beauty no one else would acknowledge. No, Katarina decided. She was drunk and it felt good, and that was all the reason she needed to pull Riven against her and accept a reverie under the smog of war and Zaun.

She didn't remember stumbling drunk into a hotel or threatening the bellhop to silence. But her back fell into soft sheets, and she knew where she was. Riven's body pressed against hers, smiles and moans abundant. Katarina was just enjoying the ride. Her satchel slid to the floor, dropping the weight of business, and Katarina swore it moaned in her voice as its flap opened and Riven's hands slid into her uniform. The feeling of skin against her stomach was too much.

"Wait," became a moan as Riven found her lips again. The next opportunity she had to speak fell to pleasure as Riven's tongue traced lewd pictures on her neck. But she couldn't give in. Her arms wrapped around the younger girl, and she rolled them across the bed. That was her first good look at Riven's face. She was blushing with anticipation and fulfillment.

"I like you a lot, Kat," she whispered.

Katarina knew what she meant. Somewhere behind the pleasure and risk was more than friendship or rivalry. But she didn't have to lie to keep it going.

"I like you too," Katarina murmured.

And she pressed a finger to Riven's lips.

"No more talking."

Riven frowned, uncertain about the rule, and she sighed. Her words passed through the finger.

"I've admired you since I first saw you, Katarina. I-"

Her head rolled to the side in thought, but her expression flashed suddenly to curiosity.

"Is that...?"

Her eyes had focused on the open satchel, and the leather-bound diary poking out of it.

"Kat, why do you have that?"

Katarina hopped to the satchel and flipped it closed, smashing her shoulder against the wall in the process. Alchemy and Brewery did wonderful things together. Her head cleared enough to remember the diary. She had to explain this somehow.

"Ok. Riven, you're drunk. I don't think-"

"It's fine!"

Riven's eyes were wide with shock at what she'd just said, but she persisted.

"Kat, it's fine. I won't... I won't say anything."

Despite her power and talent, Riven was not a willful person. Katarina couldn't imagine her staying silent under Raedsel's gaze. But the offer was heartwarming.

"Thanks, Riv."

"I..."

Riven stopped herself again. She was on the verge of saying what she had meant to before, but a still-too sober mind kept her thoughts hidden. Katarina spared her with an exit.

"Riven, I like you too. I think- I mean... I like this."

She smiled her sincerity.

"But you're very, very drunk, Riven. And I don't... I think you should be in your right mind to-"

"So are you," Riven frowned.

Katarina nodded, still clutching her satchel.

"Yes. Yes, I am also drunk."

She sat in a complimentary Hextech chair, next to a complimentary Hextech desk, and stared across the room at Riven's form on the bed. She hadn't remembered stripping the poor girl. Oh, that body was tempting. Katarina clutched her satchel tighter, and tried to muster the courage she needed. She had to read this diary. That was the whole reason she drank. And she couldn't let Riven feel so strongly about her. Katarina didn't even know if she wanted this yet. Well...

"Ok. Ok, you're right, Riven. It's fine. And... thank you... for not saying anything. But..."

Riven smiled, and let the dimples fade as Katarina looked for words.

"But I-"

She stood to leave. Riven's smile disappeared and she sat up.

"I have to... I have something to do... later."

The satchel fell, and Katarina let her uniform go with it.

Hours later, Katarina lay wrapped in an embrace with her sleeping comrade. Riven was snoring away the alcohol left in her system. Katarina was feeling it pounding in her head. But she couldn't sleep without reading that diary. Her fingers were still entwined in Riven's hair. She had cropped it to her ears on enlistment, but it grew thick. Thick black locks wrapping around Katarina's fingers and slipping away like silk. She pushed Riven's arms away and stood, still feeling her balance lag.

The diary was buried under discarded clothing. She had to use the bathroom light to not wake Riven. And Garen's hand was much softer than she had expected.

_December 15th, 5 CLE_

_The Journal of Justice has printed rumors about myself and the Sinister Blade of Noxus. Apparently we were too busy having sex in Kalamanda to kill each other. There was a change in climate at the summit which somehow became an official inquiry into my private life. Ashe raised more objections to amendments. Sejuani accused me of being a prostitute. Mayfield and Talon are still holding Lissandra somewhere. I haven't discovered the location._

Every entry flowed that way, detailing the movements and descriptions of the assassin or of Talon. The one exception was a page of notes that had been scribbled over. Katarina lingered on that page for a moment, but could only pick out the image of a gear, and some equations she didn't know. She flipped to the end.

_December 21st, 5 CLE_

_Gods are mortal. War is a racket. I can only apologize for my own actions. I believe that history will show Demacia's innocence in this horrible affair, and will reveal the real culprits behind the monstrosity that I have helped commit here. I will leave this book in the Library of the Frost Archer Tribe. I don't give a damn who reads it, or how far this information spreads._

_And for the record, Katarina and I were too busy having sex to kill each other. It's the only part of Kalamanda I don't regret._


	24. Duelists

Time had lost meaning. Garen couldn't tell if he was hot or cold. He couldn't see the person directly before him. Her image changed with every thought while borrowed voices masked her words.

All he could manage was a growl.

"What are you doing?"

"I am toying with your mind, Garen. I am manipulating your consciousness, forging your memories, and pulling you into realities that have not happened yet, and perhaps never will. I am altering the very thing that makes you, you."

The voice was his mother, Katarina, or the beggar he had passed four months ago.

"No," he growled. His head ached. A wave of pain passed over him.

"Excuse me?"

Lilia Crownguard turned away from the mirror in her bedroom. Gold and white tapestries flanked blinded windows. Whatever sheened the wooden floor reflected the entire scene above. Garen was standing in the doorway, clutching the mail in his hands and fidgeting underneath his dress uniform.

"You asked for the mail," he repeated.

Her eyes returned to the mirror, and she repeated a gesture usually reserved for servants.

"Read it to me, darling. I just want to finish tidying myself up."

Garen approached the table she had indicated, and let all but one parcel fall there. His eyes raised to watch her as he slid the envelope open with a finger. Lilia was comparing two earrings, an onyx rose against the family emblem, as if deciding who to be. Garen's eyes fell back to the letter, and paused on the intact seal. He had broken it just a second ago, but here it was. Garen's glance at his hand lingered, and he realized with a shock that he had one finger too many. He flexed the six digits into a fist, feeling in the air a sudden presence of paranoia, and his gaze turned over his shoulder to another mirror. But he did not meet his reflection. There was the image he had seen before, of his mother choosing her attire. But the woman there was not his mother.

Garen lashed out with his fist and struck her. He was no longer at home, or warm. The woman he'd struck fell backwards into snow, and Garen was on his feet in an instant. The winds of Freljord lashed against his face without introduction, and he dove headlong into them, tackling the woman as she tried to stand. She spun in his grip like a snake of the Serpentine, eyes blazing purple and hair glowing white like holy frost. She was his sister, Luxanna. Garen struck another blow against her face. She was Princess Ashe, the Frost Archer. Another hit. She was Katarina, naked and writhing beneath him in the Kalamanda mud. Another strike dispelled the illusion. He was back in the snow, pinning a woman he didn't recognize.

Her teeth were stained red with blood, nose crooked and eyes crossed. Even with an enemy, Garen knew restraint. His fist held, cocked high and ready should she want a second round. But her eyes refocused into a satisfied look. And when her glare met his again, she laughed.

Garen was not holding a woman prisoner in the snow below him. He was gripping a boulder, the blood from his knuckles forming the curvature of her smile. Her laugh sounded again from a safe distance behind him.

"Man is free at the moment he wishes to be," she whispered.

Her voice had no accent, no language, and no qualities. Garen rose to his feet and drew his sword as he turned to her, wary of punching another rock.

"What are you doing to me?" he called. "What are you?"

Garen's words died in the howling wind of a Freljordian blizzard, and the cold snapped at his bones before she answered.

"One more time," her voice whispered.

"Most humans can't resist. But too much depends on it. You can't let him do this to you. It might be impossible, but you have to resist, Crownguard."

She approached him, a single step that left no mark in the snow.

"You have to resist."

"You have to," his mother chided. "Because I said so, before you ask."

Lilia turned down the hallway of her estate, past the Crownguard lineage of portraits. Garen followed her, ignoring the gazes of dead relatives and fidgeting with an empty envelope. The broken seal of a black rose peeked up at him. No. He wasn't here. Garen flexed his hand, feeling a grip with six fingers.

Freljord. Ice. The woman was standing face-to-face with him now. She seemed a few inches taller, having the advantage of not sinking in the snow like a mortal would. Garen gripped her by the collar of her trench coat. Her words interrupted his thoughts.

"Man is free at the moment he wishes to be. Can you remember that?"

Her breath had no warmth. It did not fog in the air. But she gave him a scarlet ribbon, woven from a cloth he probably couldn't afford. She tucked it into his armor.

"Resist, Garen. Your humanity demands it."

And her presence concluded with her words. The cold replaced her, and Garen was suddenly crouched into a ball, feeling the warmth on his skin stolen away by a greedy climate. All around him was the same swirling white of a snow-blind existence. He couldn't tell up from down or real from not. All that grounded him to the reality of Freljord was the cold loneliness of nature's negligence. But he wasn't naked. Snow survivalism triggered in his mind, and he moved through the motions he'd learned as a Commando. Shelter. Fire. Voices?

Two black shapes emerged from The White, both wearing Noxian trench coats. And he knew the voices.

"Hey. Mayfield."

"Quiet, Talon. I sense fear."

"Over there."

Garen waved, and then ducked low while they rushed to his side and slid into cover by the rock.

Mayfield kept watch while Talon produced an extra cloak for Garen to don.

"I figured you went AWOL or died," Talon whispered. He took a peek over the boulder before adding, "You've been out _here_ for two days? You're tougher than I thought."

Talon had answered himself.

Garen could only ask, "Two days? What?"

Mayfield remembered his presence suddenly.

"You armed, Crownguard?"

Garen gripped his sword and nodded.

"What have I missed?" he grumbled.

Two days, apparently. And two days in the company of three assassins was a lot.

"Too much," Talon chided.

"Let's see... uh... Piltover's Ambassador got recalled. He's being switched out. So we lost that vote. And Princess Sejuani and Ashe gathered the votes they needed to overrule our amendments. But someone lit a fire in the food stores, so the summit had to be canceled."

"A real tragedy," Mayfield added.

"I'm sure we had nothing to do with it," Garen growled.

"Well the summit isn't canceled," Talon answered. "The Frost Archer-"

Garen interrupted, "Who?"

"The- Ashe. The Frost Archer Princess. She declared last night that she could hunt up enough game to resume the summit by today. She's already returned about half of what she needs. Pretty incredible actually-"

Talon was cut short by a hiss. The trio ducked lower and huddled as Mayfield presented hand signals.

FIVE-ARCHERS-RANGE-50-ON 3.

_So they weren't here to rescue me,_ Garen realized. Ashe and her elite archers had wandered into the snow, but they weren't the only hunters around. The archers' footfalls became Mayfield's count, and as the treads reached their cover, the trio rose up at quarters too close to fire. The archers were wearing white, the Freljordian color for victory, Garen remembered. It was damn hard to see them in snow. But three women fell in the first strike. Garen had only enough time to process what he'd just done as Talon forced the fourth into a reversed head lock. A knife to her spine finished the job just as Ashe finished aiming. Garen took the arrow straight to his chest and down to the boulder behind him. Talon couldn't charge as fast as Ashe could draw. He took the second arrow, this one enchanted. A flash of ice left him frozen to the spot. But when Ashe had turned to kill Mayfield, she made the mistake of eye contact.

Garen couldn't move. His head had cracked against the boulder, and the arrow's shaft proved surprisingly debilitating. She'd hit somewhere near his heart and lungs; they were both working. But she had not hit Mayfield. Garen lay where he had fallen and remembered the position he had been in only a few moments before. Ashe's expression was blank, her aim answering gravity's call, while Mayfield simply stared at her.

A moment later, her grip released, and Mayfield approached to collect her bow, and push her over with one hand. Ashe fell in a daze, awake enough to catch herself with her arms, but seeming stunned. Mayfield circled around to her side, holding her gaze the whole way, only stopping to ask, "Do you feel divine?"

He lunged and drove a boot into her side.

Garen struggled to his elbows and shouted, "Hey! She's surrendered."

Mayfield waved dismissively, keeping his eyes on Ashe.

"Nose to the dirt, Paragon. Just follow your orders."

He kneeled to Ashe's chest and grabbed her chin to stop its lull to the side. Garen saw the look in their eyes, as if nothing else existed but the space between them. His musings were interrupted by their conversation.

"What do you see?" Mayfield whispered.

Ashe trembled for a moment, locked in his gaze, but her jaw clenched as she steeled herself.

"What are you?" she growled. And her arm reached up for his. But she couldn't secure a grip, as if her strength had been stolen.

Mayfield grinned, his nose pressing flush with hers.

"Would you believe me if I said I was a god?"

Ashe sneered "No" indignantly.

"Good," he answered. "We have something in common. Because we both know you didn't inherit a damn thing from Avarosa. You might be a good archer, but nothing more than your mortal instructors. You've envied other women's looks before. You bleed. You couldn't protect your sister. You can't even hunt on your own turf."

His hand jerked her gaze to the corpses nearby.

"That's your elite guard, right? They didn't last long. And _help is not coming_ for you, Princess."

Ashe found her strength again, and her arms nearly broke his grip before the eye contact resumed. The trance consumed her effort, and Mayfield leaned down to whisper "Now listen closely."

Garen could not hear what was whispered afterward, but he could see as the contact between them changed. Their eyes danced as if fencing with lightning, and the stare was punctuated by the occasional jerk as Ashe would try to move. But whatever trance had been effected had precluded it, as if the two were trapped in the same dream.

It was a moment later that Ashe's eyes rolled back into her head, which plopped to the ground. Mayfield stood and turned to Garen.

"What are you waiting for? Let's get out of here. This place disgusts me."

Mayfield raised an arm to shield himself from the blizzard.

"I can't move," Garen grumbled back.

Mayfield approached and examined the arrow in Garen's chest.

"Huh. It's enchanted."

His hand wrapped around it and pulled hard before Garen could protest. The arrowhead had no anchors, just a pointed tip. Garen sighed in relief, and felt his strength return in a rush. He sat up to see the block of ice that Talon had become.

"Ectoplasm," Mayfield corrected.

"What?"

Garen stood while Mayfield explained, "It isn't ice. It's ectoplasm emulating ice without the temperature. Mess with the Mass Field and you get errors- _materia ex nihilo_. It doesn't have any properties, like temperature. He's still alive."

Mayfield tapped on the block of not-ice. Talon blinked from within. Garen eyed the arrow that Mayfield had discarded. Ashe had aimed it between his organs. It had no anchor on its tip, so it could be safely removed. And here Talon was imprisoned by another enchantment.

"Non-lethal weapons," Garen muttered.

Mayfield cast a sideways glance and returned to his own puzzle.

"It should entropy out, but I don't remember how long that's supposed to take. He had the Anti-magic powder on him. Huh. So how do we-"

The block suddenly melted, releasing a gasping and soaked Talon. By the time he stood, the stuff had evaporated from his clothing. Talon glanced around the carnage and nodded to Ashe.

"Where do we take her?"

"We leave her," Mayfield spat.

Talon traded a look with Garen.

"What? You changed her vote, right? Well she can't vote if she dies in a blizzard."

He scowled as Mayfield scooted past him to leave. They followed in silence, Garen contemplating the two days he was missing, and Talon staring daggers at Mayfield's back. But Mayfield's head lifted and turned over his shoulder, and he finally answered, "Avarosa only had one child."

Talon's glare turned to Garen as if to say "Can you believe this guy?"

Garen shrugged. Mayfield continued.

"The barbarians wanted to replace her child with one of their own. They're big on crib snatching to sneak into cultures. But the person they sent to do the job was afraid of tampering with a deity's baby. So he put two barbarian children into the crib. Naturally, the only sane thing left to do was raise them under the same roof and split the kingdom when they came of age. They've had to distinguish themselves at every stage of their life or face execution, possibly at the hands of their own followers. That's why the three tribes are at war. Two are impostors. One is a god."

The silence was potent enough for Garen to prod, "And you think the Frost Archer-"

"Yes."

The shutters of the Hextech inn were closed. Garen could see little of the little town of Rakelstrake as he waded through snow and wind, but the snow cleared to reveal another party as he entered the lobby.

Princess Mauvole was gearing up with several of her elite dervishers. Each wore furs over leather armor, and carried scimitars and kukri blades. Mauvole had just finished storing her blades as Garen entered.

"Check," she called.

"Team One ready."

"Two, ready."

Mauvole nodded.

"Ashe thinks she can hunt up more game than the best among us. What say you?"

Cheering followed the men and women of the Ice Dervish tribe as they exited. Garen brushed past them, trying to get farther into the warmth and to his room. The hearth sparked at his sins as he passed it, and his eyes rose from the loose ember to the painting above. The Freljordian Pantheon was still bearing down upon a woman gripping a black rose. The distraction was enough that Garen did not notice as he brushed past Mauvole, or as his hand slipped her a ribbon.

It was hours later, in his room, when he finally decided to commit something to paper. He was sitting at the edge of his bed, staring at a leather-bound diary on the dresser. His mother had demanded a report of every day. He was missing two, and in honesty, there was nothing he wanted anyone to know about what he had been up to. But he was a soldier. He would do what had to be done. So as he sat at the edge of his bed, under the mass of its blankets, he reached forward to grab his diary.

_December 20th, 5 CLE_

_Resist._

Garen spent a long time staring at that entry. Today was the 21st, and he had nothing to add. He wasn't sure how long he sat, but his bones had thawed and warmed, and his mind remained frozen. He was here on his mother's orders, but his mother had no rank over him. Talon was Noxian. Mayfield was an assassin taking orders from a Noxian secret society. The squabbles of barbarians in the North had nothing to do with Demacia.

"What am I doing?" he finally wondered.

"And who are you doing it for?"

Garen's head shot up to meet a dagger at his lips. Princess Mauvole had graced him with her presence.

"I have your room surrounded," she threatened. "All I have to do is scream."

She waited for Garen to nod before removing the blade. He had wondered, briefly, what it felt like to be Ashe.

"I guess I had it coming," he admitted.

Mauvole smirked, but her composure faltered and she gasped.

In the honest moment she answered, "Don't we all?"

But her admission ended there, and her composure returned. She had been gasping like that and speaking in quick breaths ever since her younger sister had disappeared, almost two weeks ago. Lissandra, Garen remembered.

"I don't know where they're keeping her," he mumbled. "I would tell you if I did."

"The Black Rose does not take prisoners," Mauvole breathed.

"My sister... is dead... Or will be."

Her blade sheathed, and Mauvole began unhooking the straps on her leather armor. Garen's inquisitive look stopped her.

"You asked... what you were doing," she supplied.

Garen's eyes skimmed her for answers, then fell to his blankets.

"Um..."

He watched as her hands reached into her armor and produced a red ribbon. The memory of slipping it to her came back. The memory of having it slipped to him followed.

"I have no idea what that means," he whispered.

"It means... she marked you... for me," Mauvole answered. "And I trust her."

Mauvole unstrapped her cuirass and hefted it over her shoulders with a pained series of grunts. Garen shrugged his blankets away, not sure if he should offer to help or be worried for his life. But he saw as Mauvole's eyes took note of the bandage on his torso, and the padding over Ashe's mark.

"Get up," she ordered.

And she turned her back for Garen to see the strings holding her tunic.

"Untie me."

"What?"

"... Or I will scream... and my guards... will kill you."

Her head turned to the side on her last breath. Garen nodded, and his fingers set to work stripping his enemy. He felt none of the rush Katarina had given. So it wasn't just the taboo. The thought shrugged away as his finger brushed Mauvole's skin. She gasped in pain, lurching away from him slightly. She rested a hand on the dresser nearby for support.

"Keep going."

Her clothes fell away in a silence that was becoming uncomfortable. But what they revealed was far more than that. Mauvole was injured. Her skin had been so bruised and battered that entire veins were visible by the splotches their hemorrhaging had left. She had no right to be alive in such a condition, or had done nothing so horrible as to deserve it. Or perhaps that was what she meant before, that she had earned this.

"They wanted my vote. They tortured me," she confided. "But that was... not enough."

She turned to face him again, and leaned back against the dresser, cautiously letting her posture relax. She had more flab than a goddess could admit in public, but more burdens than any mortal could carry.

"If I may," Garen murmured. "Which one?"

Mauvole's brow flicked.

"What?"

"Talon or Mayfield? Which one did this?"

He felt in his expression the certainty that he had done something horribly wrong, and that now he needed the courage to admit it, and to put it right. Treason by letter, and virtue by spirit. But when Mauvole reached for his hand, Garen saw pity in her expression.

"Your fist, please," she whispered.

His fingers balled and his knuckles protruded, and her hand raised his to her bared chest. What Garen saw there fit suddenly into an image he hated. Four bruises lined along her breast and exploded through veins where her breast met her sternum. Her hand pulled his fist forward, and his knuckles nestled tight against the marks they had left.

"You don't remember, do you?" she whispered.

Garen had no answer.

"So it is true," she breathed.

Garen pulled his fist away, dreading the contact.

"What? What is?"

"Everything she said. The prophecies are true. The _Nattligen_ have come. The True Daughter... will be revealed. The Voi-"

Her eyes fell closed, and she had to steel herself against the pain of speaking, and when they reopened, she had the clarity in her pupils of a prophet.

"Garen. I am not the True Daughter of Avarosa. Avarosa's child never would have fallen to such disgrace. I have known for so long, and I have to accept it now, but I must keep fighting. Do you understand what would happen to my people if I were to say such a thing?"

Garen shrugged as sympathetically as possible.

"They would become outcasts. They would be branded heretics. My younger sisters would all be hunted and killed, even by their own subjects, branded traitors and barbarians. Sejuani's marauders would butcher the men of my tribe and subject my sisters to the most unforgivable cruelties. So I must be a goddess. For my people, I must. I hope you will forgive me someday for this lie, but I do not believe I will be alive to see it."

Garen shook his head.

"They need you alive to vote their way."

"I won't," she whispered.

"But, your sister-"

"But my _people_."

She let the thought settle in silence.

"My hunters have finished... restocking the food stores. The summit will resume today. Find my sister and free her... before I give my vote, and if there is a heaven for us... I will barter anything for your entry."

She placed a hand against his chest with her thumb tucked against her palm. It had significance, but Garen was completely lost in local custom. He placed a hand over hers.

"I... I don't know where she is. I don't know how to help you. Can't you... If you die, won't your people realize that you aren't a goddess?"

The question should have been obvious to him, but just as he thought that, the answer became more obvious. Avarosa had died six-hundred years ago. Ashe, Sejuani, and Mauvole were separated from her by twelve generations of women who all died at some point.

"No," was Mauvole's summary. "But above all else, the people must believe that I might be a goddess."

Garen nodded, but was struck suddenly with the thought of Ashe's arrows.

"You said Sejuani would kill and... be horrible to your people. What about Ashe?"

Mauvole shook her head.

"I don't know."

"Isn't it worth a shot?" Garen egged. "Isn't that chance worth peace among the three tribes?"

Mauvole's expression was pity again, the same face she had worn when she saw his ignorance before.

"Do you have a sister, Garen? Would you trust her life with an enemy that had been sworn against you since birth?"

Garen did not hear her words. He saw them as images. He saw Luxanna at home with him, retelling the story of Katarina's mercy. He saw the scar on Katarina's face in Kalamanda.

"Yes," he answered. "I did. And..."

He had to think for a moment, but he remembered how the battle turned. He remembered looking for his sister in a pub by the front lines. He remembered Katarina's grace as she fell through the window and coated the room with daggers- the beauty he saw even as she felled his friends. He remembered raising his sword too slowly, and seeing her aim hesitate, and knowing that she had missed by design.

"And I would trust her again," he finished.

If Mauvole's faith had stunned him before, she seemed absolutely flabbergasted by his.

"You can't ask me to-"

"You are asking me to commit treason," he answered. "And I will. For your people and for my conscience. Because virtue exists only in secret."

She did not recognize the motto of the Commandos, but she saw its merit.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For your strength."

Garen had little time to lose. Minutes later, he was fully armed in the lobby, on his way to knowledge. Talon was holding Lissandra somewhere. But Mayfield was waiting in the lobby, his gaze focused on the portrait above the fire. After two weeks, his fascination with it had not died. Garen stopped at his side, facing the door and waiting for a comment on his actions.

"You're upset, Garen. Go ahead."

"Where is Lissandra being held?"

Garen had little patience left for the roundabout explanations Mayfield occasionally deigned to provide. There would be no negotiation. He said it in his tone. Mayfield's response lacked any concern, and carried suspicion in its stead.

"Talon is holding her in a homeless shelter down the street."

Garen waited a brief moment for the catch. There had to be something wrong with the information. Garen knew the other two didn't trust him. They knew that he didn't need to know, and they would ask why he was asking. But Mayfield's attention stayed on the painting.

"Oh. Wait."

There it was. Mayfield checked a Hextech pocket watch and mumbled, "He released her two minutes ago."

And his gaze returned to the painting. Mayfield's jaw chewed a few times, then settled.

"Let me guess. Mauvole changed her vote," he mused.

Garen drew his sword while Mayfield finished, "and she thinks we'll kill her sister."

"Won't you?"

Garen was readying to charge when Mayfield finally looked away from the painting.

"People are just flames to be blotted out," he whispered. "No point crying over one or two."

Then, in a louder voice, "But no."

He smirked.

"We _need_ Lissandra. We have her vote. Now if only we could put her in her sister's position. If only there was someone to make an example of."

Mayfield punctuated the last sentence with a subtle twitch in his eyes. Garen felt the world around him loosen, as if a pillow had delivered a concussion.

"Do me a favor, Garen. Go finish what you started with Mauvole."

_Resist._

Garen felt the pain wrack his mind. The world shimmied as if trying to escape from him. But he steeled himself against it, and the wave passed. He glared back into Mayfield's eyes and growled, "No."

Mayfield's expression dropped. Whatever he had done, had been doing for two weeks, had suddenly failed.

"Let's make an example of _you_," Garen finished.

But his words were covered by the door and whoever kicked it in. Ashe had returned from the storm, her all-white garb replaced with black and gold. And she had learned. A quicksilver sash was tied over her eyes. Her bow was already drawn and aimed. Two arrows were loaded.

"Let's make an example of you two then," she growled.

Mayfield dodged his. Garen, behind him, was not so lucky. And he noted with a bite that Mayfield had been wrong about the temperature. Ice, or ectoplasm, was as cold as it was confining. Garen was a brick of cold.

Mayfield found cover behind a couch, but Ashe seemed to know this, her nose and ears pricked high and tense.

"I always thought the _Nattligen_ were a myth," she called.

Her feet were strafing around the cover, bow ready for the next sound.

Mafyield had pulled a Hextech revolver from his coat. A shot to the roof dropped a chandelier. Ashe scrambled back towards the door while Mayfield changed position and Garen panicked in place. Hextech torches cascaded and shattered against the wooden floor, arcane jets of power sparking and flowing out of them as they cracked. The only other sources of light now were the few torches on the walls. The window shutters had been closed against the blizzard.

"You didn't study the myths very well, then," Mayfield answered.

Ashe regained her stance and trained an arrow on his voice, somewhere out of Garen's sight. Mayfield cooed to her from the shadows.

"There are five ways to get into your head, Princess. The eyes are just one of them."

What followed was a rattle, like that on a snake. Mayfield was spinning the cartridge on his revolver.

"No," he whispered.

"You didn't study the myths. If you had, you wouldn't have come here _all alone."_

His voice swallowed the last lights in the room, and as the hypnotic paranoia overtook them, the techmaturgical lanterns along the wall sputtered and dimmed into a deathly black.

The revolver's rattle didn't come from where his voice had. He continued speaking from corners and nooks that crossed each other in the room.

"I wouldn't need your ears, either," he cooed.

"Just a meal properly cooked for your taste, or a light stroke against the hairs of your spine."

Footsteps sprinted across the hallway without an owner. The painting shifted on the wall, and a ribbon fell loose from behind it. Ashe's aim was adjusting to these and the wisps of unnatural wind stoking the fire, but she couldn't chase every phantom. Her breathing calmed and steadied under discipline, and her aim relaxed as she tried to filter them out. She jerked again, suddenly, and Garen saw in the peripheries of his vision that Mauvole had entered the lobby from the rear.

"She isn't alone," Mauvole wheezed.

Mayfield's voice had utterly changed. Now it was as if the darkness was laughing, its echoes bouncing on a room made larger by shadow.

Garen, meanwhile, felt the ice around him warming. The enchantment had worn off. It melted in a single deluge, and he sprinted to cover in the arm of the couch. Mayfield was nowhere to be seen. But the rattle sounded again, this time behind Ashe. She swiveled on a heel, and Garen saw from under her aim as the door of the Hextech Inn slammed shut. The wall torches sparked back to life. Mayfield had run. Garen stood, arms raised, and Ashe was on him in an instant. Another arrow, this one paralysis, struck through his bandage into the same hole as before.

Garen groaned a harmony up from the floor as the wound sang a melody in his nerves.

Ashe appeared above him, her eyes still covered by the sash. She had worn it around her waist during ceremonies. Her nose twitched while she took aim at Mauvole.

"Garen Crownguard," she snorted.

"I used to think goddesses were a myth," he tried.

The sash covered her eyes, but Ashe's lips spread into a satisfied smile. She corrected it sharply.

"You can't flatter your way out of this, Crownguard. What business does Demacia have with my people?"

"I was tricked. It's the Black Rose. I don't know what they want."

In the Commando's, he had received a little torture training. It went like this: "There are two kinds of torturers, those who want information, and those who want to torture. Everyone breaks eventually. Your call."

Garen was pondering its wisdom as Ashe pondered his words.

"Where is my sister?" she finally asked.

Mauvole stepped in to his aide, but Garen spoke first.

"They just released Lissandra. I didn't know they took your sister in her place," he answered. "But they were holding Lissandra at a homeless shelter down the street."

The door opened again, and Ashe pivoted to meet the newest arrival. Mauvole's hand readied throwing daggers. Garen could lift his head enough to see a large, fur hat pause under threat in the entry. The emblem of the People's State of Piltover was pinned to it, and the woman beneath wore the symbol as her expression. She took a moment to think before concluding,

"Her Holiness of Freljord, Princess... Ashe... and Mauvole."

Ashe waited a moment, sorting the voice.

"Your accent... The new Diplomat from Piltover?"

Her bowstring tightened. The Piltover woman glared and answered,

"Let's be serious. The negotiations have ended. But, yes. Madame Sheriff Caitlyn, representative of the People's State of Piltover, Enforcer General, and Flame of the Revolution, if you prefer complete titles."

"I don't," Ashe snapped.

"Then Sheriff Caitlyn, if you please."

She tipped her hat to the sash over Ashe's eyes, and unslung a rifle from her shoulder. Garen recognized it as the infamous Snayperskaya Piltover Kalashnikov. Caitlyn recognized him.

"Where's Mayfield?"

She was done with introductions.

"Making more friends, no doubt," Mauvole breathed. Her head tilted to Garen.

"A homeless shelter on this street, you said?"

Garen nodded. Ashe's blinded gaze had lingered on Caitlyn for a moment, but she turned it down to Garen.

"All three of Freljord's tribes know what you've done here," she whispered. "But only I will give you a chance to redeem your nation. I don't imagine Demacia would receive you kindly if stories about their Paragon's evils were to follow you home."

She let the thought sprout in Garen's head.

"So if I was you," she finished, "I would help me find my sister."

Garen nodded.

"Ok."

"Smart choice."

She relaxed her bow and removed the arrow from Garen's chest. He sat up too fast for his health, now embarrassed to see his chest-bandage bleeding.

"We have to hurry," he grunted.

Caitlyn, Sherrif of Piltover, grinned.

"I love a good chase."

"Agreed," Ashe hummed.

Human nature stirred the blizzard into an ice-hell. Garen's blood was freezing against his chest as soon as he left the hotel. Running was the only option for warmth, and Mayfield had a head start. Even Piltover shivered under her layers of winter gear. Mauvole wore a straight face through her pain. Ashe wore nothing but a cloth tunic, black and gold, that ended above her knees.

"It's unusually cold," she observed.

Garen kept running, following a blinded woman through a blizzard, and hoping that at least his core would warm up. Caitlyn kept lifting her rifle, looking ahead through the optics. Garen turned a chide over his shoulder and shouted to be heard over the storm.

"I don't think a scope's going to help in this."

Caitlyn's expression was too cold to react.

"Three lifesigns! Two hundred meters!" she called.

And she dropped prone.

"One of them is running. The second is holding the third hostage."

Caitlyn's hand flashed up to the arcane optic enhancements on her weapon's top rail. She made an adjustment, precise and quick, and relaxed back into a firing position. The other three hesitated at her side.

"Crownguard. Quickly. Who's taller, Mayfield or Talon?"

Her eye stayed on the scope while Garen hesitated.

"Talon, but barely."

"Ashe, call out to your sister. I'm lining up the shot."

Ashe's voice split the blizzard as if commanding it to part. Garen found himself believing uncomfortable things about her. Her sister's voice responded weaker. It wasn't a second later that the Kalashnikov entered the conversation. Caitlyn grinned.

"Bullseye."

Weeks later, his sister smiled. It was a smile of expectation and hope. It was a contrast to reality. Garen stirred the thought in his glass and glanced around his audience. Luxanna had another young friend, and his mother had invited General Laurent's daughter again. They were standing in the Crownguard Gardens, away from the older dignitaries and their play of civility.

"What happened next? Ugh, Garen you always do this. You get us to the good part and you stop."

Luxanna frowned with all of her might. Garen didn't see. He had sought Fiora's reaction, and was now caught in battle with her eyes.

Her accent managed to ask, "Iz your sizter always zo easily impressed?"

Garen only glared.

"Does the story sound impressive to you?"

Usually he would have waited for an answer. But the conversation was in their eyes. She was nudging him, finding places too tender for him and poking hard, trying to break him.

"Non," she snapped. "Iz- how do you say- _fantastique_?"

How do you say... As if she didn't often visit the common folk or use their vulgar language. Fiora was raised with the tongue of nobles, and she wouldn't let anyone forget it.

"Garen!"

Luxanna demanded an answer. Her outburst stole the attention from General Laurent's joke a few bushes over, and Luxanna blushed under the questioning glances of Demacia's top brass.

"Talon escaped. I just left."

"Zo you 'ave zee diary?"

Fiora's hand extended to him.

"No," Garen growled. "I handed it to Princess Ashe as a sign of goodwill."

A contemptuous "hm" accompanied her look. Garen was drawn back to her, a confident glare his only defense against her unsatisfied inspections.

"No, Garen. Not that! Did she kill the bad guy? Did he die?"

But Luxanna's demands were interrupted by a summons from Lilia. She stomped away, her friend in tow.

"Zuch a brat," were Fiora's parting words. Luxanna could only scowl over her shoulder as a response.

Fiora met Garen's disapproving comment with a glare that meant "do you disagree?"

He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of being right.

"Don't you have any stories I can disbelieve?"

He regretted it when Fiora smirked.

"I vould tell you drivel about gods, but... well..."

The smirk widened. And when her lips spread, Garen saw a playful tongue dart across her teeth. He sighed.

"You're a duelist, right? I heard you had a victory yesterday. Tell me about-"

"I have no equal."

Parry. Riposte. Garen sipped his drink, keeping eye contact. He would not give her the pleasure of being correct.

"So you shamed him? Or was this for money?"

"To the death."

A blade cut her lips, and they curled in glee. In her excitement, she had forgotten to stress the accent. Something about Freljord had kept Garen cold for the whole week it took him to travel back; He felt it again now.

He felt it hours later, when he knocked in his mother's doorway. She turned away from her mirror.

"Excuse me?"

A moment of shock struck him. His eyes lowered to the mail in his hands, and past that to his reflection in perfectly sheened wood floors. Deja Vu. But there was no point sharing it.

"I..."

His journal was sitting on an end table.

"You asked for the mail," he mumbled.

Lilia's eyes returned to the mirror, and she repeated a gesture usually reserved for servants. She was too busy changing outfits to address him.

"Read it to me, darling. I just want to finish tidying myself up."

Garen approached the end table she had indicated, and let all but one parcel fall there. He opened it with a finger and read aloud something he wasn't hearing. How had that diary gotten here?

"I'm not very interested in General Laurent's advances, darling. Go ahead and burn that one. Next."

Garen complied with a flick of his wrist, and read again in a voice that didn't reach his mind. Who else traveled from Freljord to Demacia? How long had she had the diary? Had she read it yet? Garen's voice caught in his throat as she approached her dresser. Lilia passed the journal to set her tiara on a pillow in a gilded box.

When he resumed, she interrupted, "No, you were right. I can read that later. Before you go on..."

Garen set the letter aside and paused.

"Before you go on..." Lilia continued. "What is your aversion to women?"

Garen blinked over the assumption.

"What?"

"Well, Luxanna managed to find a boy she likes. And she had several chasing after her at the academy. I can assure you I put an end to that."

Lilia was inspecting herself in the mirror, so Garen was still free from her attention in one sense. He cast a scowl without thinking.

"A boy? You mean Talon? He's a Noxian assassin by the way."

"And you are a Demacian assassin," she chimed. "But yes, lust for the enemy is treason. Luxanna is going on another tour of Noxus, by the way. I hope you enjoyed Freljord. She nearly begged me for that trip. Wanted to see Freljord's men. You... gave a very... _thorough_ description of the men in Freljord."  
>Her eyes flashed to the journal. Garen eyed it as well, wondering suddenly what was in it. She had never asked him to hand his over, so she must have received this one in advance of his arrival. Who had forged this? He caught the accusation in his throat. Whatever was in this diary would probably not get him hanged. The truth could.<p>

"You and Jarvan were very close as children," she suggested.

"And whose fault is that?" Garen couldn't talk about the diary. An accusation was his only defense.

"Just an observation," his mother mumbled. "Go on with the mail."

Garen panicked as he reached for the third. The emblem of a rose stared up at him in black ink. His finger ran through the seal, and it split. Garen had seen photographs before, in the Commandos. He had taken a few himself. So he knew what he was holding. And he had been present when it was taken. He was in it, actually. Garen flexed a grip with five fingers. This had to be a dream- a nightmare. The picture was taken in front of the Bilgewater Embassy- when Katarina had been calling for the guards to stop him and General Laurent from leaving- when she had tripped and he had caught her. In the picture, she was staring into his eyes, weight on his chest, with a leg popped behind her. Her bottom lip was tucked, mouth open and reaching for his.

Garen's eyes rose to meet his mother. She was watching him in the mirror.

"Explain," she ordered.

"She tripped."

"Convenient."

"She was drunk," he supplied.

"And you?"

"Apparently, I'm a homosexual." Garen tossed the photograph onto the table. "Besides, should I have stabbed her in front of an embassy?"

Lilia turned from the mirror to face him, and bit her lower lip as an illustration.

"Do you know why girls do that, darling?"

Garen had lost patience in the topic.

"If I remember correctly, it was the phonetic 'f.' She was yelling 'Fu-'"

A diamond cracked against his cheekbone, drawing blood along his face. He finished the word silently.

"You aren't a man, Garen. Fortunately, you have a mother."

"Fffffortunately," he egged.

"You will kill Katarina Du Couteau. You will marry a Demacian noble. You will thank me someday."

She finished the assertions at her door, and stood beside it, waiting for Garen to open it. He obliged, holding the doorknob in a grip that could crush her throat, and stepped aside for her to pass.

The judgmental glares of the Crownguard lineage bore down on him as they paced. A little past Falren Crownguard, Lilia spoke again.

"I am leaving home for the week."

Garen thanked whatever gods had managed that. She did not speak again until they reached the entryway.

"In my stead, the house needs a feminine presence. General Laurent's daughter has elected to stay over for the duration. She's waiting for you, by the way."

Garen stopped.

"Wh- Fiora? Where?"

Lilia's head tilted, as if the answer was obvious.

"You know. That room above the study with the armillary in it."

Garen made the connection instantly.

"You mean... the room Luxanna and I were conceived in?"

Luxanna had been made aware yesterday, somehow, and wanted to know what the word meant. Lilia smiled.

"Yes. Now kiss your mother goodbye. It is very rude to keep a lady waiting."

The parting was brisk. The walk, like carrying explosives over his head in the Howling Marshes. His knock at the door, something in-between panic and discipline. Fiora was standing at the window in her dueling outfit. She had worn a dress earlier, but now she wanted to fence, and he was the only opponent available. Her gaze lilted over the Crownguard estate when she bade him to enter.

Garen's gaze was elsewhere. Across the room from Fiora's window was a portrait of his mother looking slightly pleased. But Fiora drew his attention back. She untied her dueling cape and tossed it across the feet of the bed, then walked there- she walked as if performing art instead of labor- and turned her back to him.

"Would you be so kind?"

Her head turned to the side, peering over her exposed shoulder at him. The cape had hidden a series of laces tying her outfit across the back, not unlike Mauvole's tunic- too similar, in fact. Garen eyed the portrait of his mother. Its disposition was steadily improving. He approached, wary, and let his fingers rest against the back of her neck. Finally, a reaction. Her eyes refocused, and the hairs of her neck flexed. But she stifled her gasp. He untied the first lace, realizing suddenly that it was made for far smaller fingers. Fiora's hands were resting on her hips- tiny by comparison.

"There," he murmured.

He saw her response struggle in her throat- her posture left it exposed.

"More."

The laces crossed down her back, almost to her waist. Garen foresaw events proceeding likewise. But she was probably teasing. He placed a finger between the next cross and pulled it loose.

"All of them," Fiora whispered.

Garen eyed the portrait again. His mother's hand-sans-presence was typical. He pulled the rest of the laces loose with no attempt at gentleness, and turned to leave. But her words held him.

"I will be here for a week, Garen."

"I know."

"It's rude to leave a guest, no?" she tried.

His mother's portrait suddenly clicked in his mind. She had set this up intentionally. It was a test. He would bed Fiora, or he had committed High Treason with Katarina. He couldn't leave this situation. In the moment he took to find a witty response, he heard her clothing fall.

"Zere is no man who can resist me."

Her tone was smug. She was stating a fact, rather than seducing him.

"I do." Another fact.

"Why?"

Garen had nothing to back it up with. Because he would. Why?

"Anozer woman, perhaps?"

His eyes turned to the portrait.

"A voman you can not 'ave, perhaps? Beautiful and deadly, no?"

"No."

Garen turned to face her, to engage her in the eye contact she savored. She was poking again, around places she knew would hurt, trying to prove the lie. And he had nothing to back it up. He could only fight her with a confident glare. She was smiling at the anger she had invoked, but stoic.

"Vell?"

"What?"

"Is zere enough man in you for an 'onest compliment?"

He nodded.

"You're beautiful."

Fiora's eyes rolled. "Ha! Beauty ends. What of my mind?"

Garen stifled his emotions. She was leading him.

"You stripped naked to have me appreciate your mind?"

"Clozing is a facade for zee self. But my body cannot lie. Now tell me, vhat of my mind?"

Garen circled around Fiora to the window, lining her up below the portrait. He turned away to see the gardens.

"I want to say..."

"Do not tell me vhat you vant to say. Zay it."

"You're rude. You act like you're better than everyone. You don't ignore what everyone says, but you discard it."

"And?"

He sighed into the wind.

"You're right."

"And?"

He thought, not understanding, but finally realized what she meant.

"Vhat do you zink of my mind?" she repeated.

"It's beauti-"

He turned back to her as he spoke, stopping when he realized she has moved. Her finger pressed against his lips.

"Don't tell me with your words," she whispered.

Her posture rose, exposing her body, still posed as if wielding a rapier.

Garen had been pushed too far. He advanced into her, fuming, and she backpedaled to the dresser, stopping just short of her back touching it. Her finger stayed on his lips the whole time. Her footwork had no equal.

Garen's fury had no equal. His hands reached up, and she seemed shocked for a moment- not scared or alarmed, but suddenly aware of how easily he could manhandle her. Garen's arms rose over her, past her head and he grabbed the portrait and tore it from the wall, dropping it behind the dresser. Fiora's eyes were wide with lust. Her posture straightened again, her chin rising to expose her neck, and her mouth extended to his as a prompt.

"You are more of a man than any-"

Garen pressed his finger against her lips. She gasped- she was aroused. Garen felt only anger. Who the hell was this woman, coming into his house and demanding attention at the point of her insults? Maybe she needed a taste of her own medicine.

"Don't tell me with your words," he growled.

She held his gaze, trying desperately to probe his eyes. She had to find uncertainty, or something she could grip to lead him by. But she only met the power of a man unleashed by provocations.

"Well? "

Slowly, her lips parted to speak. But he was tired of her words. His finger pressed through her lips, and she took him into her mouth, and sucked.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: For a more explicit telling of the event, check out "Pleasure of Satisfaction" by WaddleBuff.**


	25. Beachhead

**Oh ye of little faith. Seriously, though, I've been rewriting the story from chapter one onwards, and I'm almost done. I just realized that you guys have been getting nothing in the mean time. So here.**

* * *

><p>When Katarina's mother fell "ill" to the public, the family lost its reputation for impeccable health. So puking was a new experience to Katarina, as was the sickness of an intense fear. She knew it wasn't the rocking of the boat. Her summer in Bilgewater had proved an affinity for the sea. It might have been the stench or the month-long journey, she thought. But none of those turned her stomach. It turned when she thought of the land before her, and of the bloody melees that she never wanted to see again or be part of. The image of blades arrayed against her was stronger than any tide in her guts. She hurled again, mostly into the bucket between her knees.<p>

Riven was above deck, hair in the breeze and idealism beaming from a golden heart, no doubt inspiring the people under her command. So Katarina's only company was the reflected eyes of a stowaway. One of the thousands of nine-tailed foxes in Zaun had caught a ride home.

Light routed the shadows, and the fox retreated into them. Katarina had hoped that the excitement of land would save her the embarrassment of company. Instead, she felt a reassuring hand.

"Kat?"

"Riven."

Riven sat beside her, a timid smile faltering.

"Hey. We're in this together, you know."

Katarina nodded. But they weren't. To Riven, this was a simple issue. Ionia had spied on Noxus. Demacia had attacked. Soldiers would carry swords into war and walk away with titles. She didn't know what horrors awaited them off the charted map.

She didn't know about Operation Thorn. Katarina had been called into Nirmal Raedsel's office again, to discuss the matter of Scarlet and Gold. She noted that the bookshelf had been repaired after she was pinned to it, and she noted the purple top hat of the ambassador of Piltover.

"Sheriff Caitlyn, if you please."

"Lieutenant Katarina Du Couteau."

They had locked eyes for another moment before she explained.

"Sorry," Katarina blurted, "The- the last time we met, it wasn't you. A light mage-"

"So I've heard."

Caitlyn's smiles and nods were curt.

"The matter at hand- Nirmal Raedsel, I'm not familiar with your title."

"Nirmal is fine," he murmured.

Raedsel had stood from his chair for the ambassador. All of them sat now. Caitlyn nodded her appreciation.

"Nirmal then. You should remember from a briefing that Operation Thorn designated two targets: Scarlet and Gold. Mayfield himself was too dangerous, and we lost some people as a result."

Nirmal Raedsel shot a glance to Katarina. It had taken her a moment to realize, but as Caitlyn carried on, Katarina understood she was standing at her trial. Operation Thorn had been an inter-state project to identify and kill everyone that the Black Rose had supporting Mayfield. And Caitlyn, the long arm of Piltover's infamous law, had decided on who 'Scarlet' and 'Gold' were.

"To be perfectly honest, Nirmal, I don't believe they have any idea who they are."

Caitlyn sighed. Katarina reserved all emotion.

"They aren't agents of the Black Rose. They are people that Black Rose agents have control over."

Caitlyn waited for Nirmal to ask, "In your opinion as a law enforcer…"

"Katarina is innocent. Clueless, I'd say."

Nirmal nodded, almost satisfied, but remained in the conversation as a question. He was eyeing the terse movements and expressions of the sheriff.

"That concludes the investigation, then? You shot Mayfield and…"

Nirmal's eyes had fallen to the report on his desk, where he frowned.

"Correct me if I am wrong, Ambassador. We agreed that all evidence would be held by Noxus. You… There's an autopsy here, but we didn't receive a body."

He glared over the rim of his reading glasses, but met an equally angry stare. He was not the only person frowning.

"Allow me to remind you of another agreement," Caitlyn hissed, "All parties will share all information relevant to the investigation."

Nirmal set down his briefing and began flipping through the autopsy report. Pictures accompanied it, each too blurry to be useful.

"So he's not local," Nirmal murmured. "We didn't think that was relevant. Awful photography, by the-"

"He's not human!" the sheriff snarled.

"You don't get a body, Nirmal, because half-way into the autopsy he sat up, had a go at me, and escaped into the darkness- literally merged into a shadow in a locked room and disappeared."

Caitlyn finally had Nirmal's attention. He was speechless.

"And the camera works fine," she spat, "Just not when it's pointed at him. We were trying to show you the scars on his back- two vertical scars, as if someone had removed a pair of wings."

"You damn well better have the physician corroborate this," Nirmal interjected.

"He's dead," Caitlyn snapped. "When that thing woke up, it grabbed the doctor by his collar and said something to him. They kept eye contact for a moment, and then the doctor began hallucinating. I attempted to stop Mayfield. And we found the doctor an hour later, with his eyes in his hands."

Caitlyn finished just as Nirmal reached the last photo. His eyes peeked up to Caitlyn, and he asked.

"What did Mayfield say to the physician?"

Katarina was trying to lean forward and see the picture. Caitlyn's answer drew her back.

"An empty place where light keeps pace,

and where the ocean's deep.

I dwell in these and 'neath the trees,

and where the bodies sleep."

Katarina leaned into the photograph. This one was clear, of a doctor planted face-first against a wall, his body slumped in death. In each hand he held a bloody eye,and he had used the blood to write his last word in blood: "Darkness."

Katarina puked again, and the bucket between her legs swirled. Reading Garen's feelings for her was enough for one week. But checking her shoulder for the mailman of death was too much. Riven had left her with encouraging words and an admission of fear. She had thankfully left more intimate topics to stew on their own. Now it was Captain Ferro who came to visit her.

His presence had grown less and less intimidating as she grew more confident in her ability to fight. But then she had feared his unassailable strength, and now he sat cross-legged, and deflated against the wall beside her. When he removed his helmet, Katarina felt that he had never scared her more. Because she could see now, that he was not certain on his own. It wasn't until he met her eyes that his posture seemed to return.

"You look terrified, Kat. You're seriously considering jumping off the boat and swimming back, right?"

He laughed with her.

"I actually tried to abandon at DelGarde," he confided. "Fortunately, we were outflanked and a goddess of luck had taken an interest in me. I killed about ten pikemen at a breach in the fort, and used their bodies to seal it. Got a promotion on the spot."

He grimaced at the memory.

"And then I cried for a long time. Puberty's like that."

He looked to Katarina, and his enthusiasm faded as he realized he wasn't helping.

"You aren't a Lieutenant because I think you're good at it," he blurted.

Katarina just felt hurt now. She sucked spilled vomit back from her nose and tried to swallow it. Ferro clarified, "I let you be a lieutenant because I know my other two picks can't handle being a Captain. Jerry doesn't know restraint, and Riven…"

They shared a chuckle.

"Yeah. She's a big softie," Katarina hummed.

"Just don't let it go to your head," Ferro murmured. He was speaking to the darkness in front of them.

"After we hit that beach, who knows what kind of people you'll be. A lot of things happen to you in battle. You're going to lose a part of yourself in that breach," he whispered.

"Where?"

She watched Ferro blink out of a memory. He nodded up the stairs- "out there-" and then he pulled a parcel from his pocket. It had been wrapped in a Zaunite bag. "That's plastic," Ferro mumbled.

Katarina held it up, a question. Ferro laughed.

"It's a letter to my family. They live at the base of the Ironspike Mountains... If they still own the farm. I never kept in touch."

Katarina had grown accustomed to the inhuman growl Ferro's helmet produced. Hearing him speak as a mortal was heartbreaking.

"I've had a good run."

He stood and replaced his helmet.

"I think you will, too."

Running was a good metaphor. Katarina was having trouble keeping up. A week before deployment, her father had pulled the last of his strings, just to get her away from boot camp for a day.

"Kat, you're a dog right now," he apologized. "That's my fault. But you won't be forever. I'll fix it. In the mean time, you need to stay up to speed."

They boarded an elevator and didn't stop climbing when they passed Zaun's smog. Katarina found herself backing against the wall while the tower at Killik Naval Yard shrank below her. This was a suite atop the highest building in the world, and it played host to people of that standing. Katarina was forced to wear a visitor's badge, "And Mr. Du Couteau must accompany you at all times," and the two of them paced along the most luxurious interior Katarina had ever seen. Janitors with security clearances mopped emerald floors and polished the gem-laden nipples of statues. Katarina balked at every new display of wealth and power until she finally mustered the courage to whisper, "Where are we?"

Marcus stopped at a marble door with two panthers inlaid on the front. He introduced himself to it, and added his daughter's name, and the door responded with a smooth and bodiless voice.

"Welcome to the Summoners' League. If you are visiting from the Institute of War, please declare so now."

Marcus waited in silence, and a moment later, the door opened for a conference room. He guided Katarina through the doors, which became a wall as soon as they closed. Katarina glared around the room, ignoring the others present as she sought exits.

"It's magic," Marcus whispered. "Just take a seat."

The circular assembly was attended by Summoners from all schools. Katarina saw a pyromancer rubbing elbows with an artificer, and then a face she recognized. Sander Grieve sat opposite her at the circular table. Beside him, a woman in beige robes wore the Sigil of Revival on her shoulders, and the seal of Demacia on her lapel: Lessa Carin. Katarina had nearly killed her in Kalamanda. The summoner's hard feelings were focused to Grieve, at her side. But everyone's attention fell to the table's center as the lights dimmed. The presentation began with a single gasp. Katarina had never seen a hologram, but she recognized the island of Ionia.

A hooded figure stood from the table. The speaker did not lower her hood, but she bore the emblem of Noxus- the old Noxus, its citizens wrapped in the blooming rose of an onyx monarchy. The voice from that hood snapped and cooed like a woman in charge, and Katarina looked to her father for confirmation.

"Is that-?"

"Thank you for your patience, summoners," the speaker began. And Emilia LeBlanc dropped her hood to absolutely no one's surprise. Katarina sat very rigid in her chair, eyeing her father for guidance. He was distracted by the headlines of a tabloid he'd brought. The Matron of the Black Rose continued, and the summoners around her seemed perfectly content with that.

"The planning committees for all of the recognized nations have reported success for this planning cycle. I'd like to start with a congratulation for everyone, and I look forward to five more years of success. Zaun, especially, has made great progress on the rocketry program, although we will have to discuss externalities. That's for another meeting. Today, please direct your attention to the map of Ionia.

"The Kinkou monastery has been the center of order and balance within the Ionian archipelago since the end of the last rune war. It was established, largely funded, and formally recognized by the Summoners' League as 'Asset 34.' You can find it under that title in your briefings."

Summoners flipped through packets on the table.

"Unfortunately, the monastery has fallen to an unknown force, plunging the surrounding area into chaos. Without a strong military presence, bandits are rising up and terrorizing the locals. The League must authorize a peacekeeping force to reestablish order in the Ionian Isles. We also have reason to believe that the Kinkou monastery's arcaneum was not properly secured before the raid. Missing items of note include mostly museum pieces, but a bounty has been declared for the safe return of two blades: Sange and Yasha."

A Zaunite in bronze robes raised a mechanical hand.

"Who declared it?"

"That was our interior department," Piltover answered. "The state archaeologist thinks it has something to do with The Ancients. It's out of my power."

The silence that descended drew the stares of all to a council of five summoners who sat together. They were murmuring too low to be heard. The conversation ended with a shrug and four nods before one leaned forward to declare,

"The League made a commitment to stability in Ionia and invested a large sum of resources specifically into the people of the Kinkou order. As strategic allies, we do owe it to them to see the dream of an Ionia at peace made real. However, as a peace organization, we have no forces to deploy, nor the funds to raise them. And without the financial backing of major nations, we lack the credibility with the public necessary to make such a proclamation."

The speaker for the League folded his hands and waited. Zaun was the first to answer.

"Zaun is willing to commit marketing expertise and up to half of the financing," the cyborg asserted.

"Noxian citizens have expressed an interest in global affairs after the incident at Kalamanda," Grieve added, "and we are ready to extend our protection to the people of Ionia."

"We will match Zaun coin for coin," Piltover confirmed.

The Summoners of the league traded glances. Shrugs and quips were exchanged. Katarina felt shocked by the rapid pace of lies and decisions from them, but she saw across the table that she was not alone. Lessa Carin sat glowering and silent beneath her hood. Grieve's weakness was his ego, and Katarina could see the necromancer make some cruel comment under his breath for the Demacian's benefit.

After the meeting, Marcus had no clarification to offer. He finished reading his paper in the elevator down, and had only this to say: "I hope that was informative."

The confining stench of a military ship was comforting now. Katarina wanted to stay in the stink and murk for a very long time, and she didn't want thoughts about the world outside to bother her. But a glance to her side shattered the illusion. Captain Ferro had a real dedication to cheering her up. And when he removed himself, he left a letter in his wake. Her father's seal split open, and she skimmed another brief comment of his.

"Hopefully you haven't inherited my anxiety or foolhardiness. I have to apologize again. You are not supposed to be on a ship to the killing fields. You are too far out of my plan for me to protect you now. Your mission is to survive until I can reassign you. Disobey every order to the contrary."

Katarina stared in disbelief, then decided that it was exactly the reprieve she needed. Her father had just told her that none of this was her fault, and that she just had to stay alive. That was the only part that scared her. But she hadn't hid in a hole from Garen, and she certainly wouldn't shy now from strangers. She kicked the bucket away and stood, slowly, due to her armor. Light pads covered her body, and a steel helmet protected her head, or was supposed to. She checked the leather sheathe of her sword, and the hoppers at her sides. There were no other excuses to stall, so she didn't.

Sunlight gave her the scowl she needed. Her sergeants had been waiting, and saluted her presence.

"Mam, the men are worried. Do you want to talk to them?"

"Mam, I'm pretty worried, myself."

Katarina could see why. The Ionians had lined the shores with a welcoming party for their saviors. But instead of fruit baskets, they had pikes and swords.

"Well," Katarina thought aloud, "First amphibious assault in history goes to Fury Company."

"Nope."

Captain Ferro was at her side with a telescope.

"15th Regulars, Echo Company, Last week in Freljord. A Captain named Swain took one of his platoons around a barbarian castle, forded the moat, and scaled the wall before anyone realized he was missing."

Ferro closed the telescope and smiled at the thought.

"How'd that work out?" a sergeant asked.

"Another overwhelming victory for Noxas," he lied.

The sergeants' non-plussed glares confirmed what Ferro's smile hid. Katarina swallowed the lie, and made it her own. She turned to the sergeants and ordered, "You heard him. It's a proven tactic. Go reassure the men."

This would be her last silent moment with Ferro. She used it to glare at him.

"You can be honest," she accused.

Ferro laughed like a drum.

"Death beckons, my fellows. Let us cast our lots and feed the crows. And may the highest roller live to collect his earnings."

He did not put a name to the quote. Katarina didn't care to ask.

"Should we be organizing, Captain?"

"Absolutely," Ferro purred. "I want your platoon at the front, Kat. Jerry at the back."

Katarina sighed. She had spent days more than anyone else studying a very different plan.

"I know," Ferro added, "but you aren't the only obligation I have. This company is my baby, and victory is my wife. If you've got to stay alive, you might make a bad move. I want a vicious bastard like Jerry at the back to keep your platoon moving forward. Don't worry. I'll be right beside you."

His smile had seemed strange before, but now it fell into place. This was not the excited bloodlust he had worn at the thought of war. Ferro was content. Ferro was preparing to die.

"What obligation?" Katarina blurted. "Why do you have an obligation to me?"

"You're under my command."

He was lying, she could tell. But he wouldn't budge on it. Ferro's odd behavior pawed at her mind like the soft purr his augmented voice had taken on. He was content, he was protecting her, and he was entrusting her with his last will and testament.

She shared the darkness below deck now. Four companies of the 42nd standard stood ready to charge. The ship's bow creaked as the water grew shallow, and the loading ramp jiggled as its restraints came loose. Katarina turned to Ferro. He had been very serious about staying at her side.

"Why do you think you're going to die, Captain?"

She knew he would lie, but it felt right to ask.

"Everyone has to, right?" he mumbled.

"Why today? And why do I have to live?"

She saw him grappling with what he could and could not say. And just has the door dropped, Ferro scrambled the words,

"Transcendence is not refused."


End file.
